Breathe Me
by The Brat Prince
Summary: I figured out girls weren't really worth it after the first few times I brought one home. None of them understood why I wasn't upset over the fact that my mom and dad constantly fought. You know what they got out of fighting? Hot, hot makeup sex. K/K/S
1. Like Judas The Traitor

**Breathe Me**

_Chapter One: Like Judas The Traitor, We Are Both Favored And Deeply Flawed  
_

By: Jondy Macmillan

_Disclaimer: They're not mine. If they were mine, South Park would be one giant gay fest, twenty four seven. So be thankful. _

A/N: Ummm…so I said I wouldn't write another SP fic until I finish 'You Can Never Go Back'. I lied. Inspiration struck, and I kind of wanted to do something younger and more angsty- because Kyle in YCNGB just has annoyances. He's too practical to angst. And too single minded. So in this fic, they get to be more like seventeen-eighteenish. High school senior types. It will be slash, it will be a Kenny/Kyle/Stan love triangle. By the way, the school stats are my own from when I was in high school. I know what it's like to come from a teeny, tiny little school. Ah high school…so long ago…why the hell am I writing about it?

* * *

It was a Salvation Army Christmas. It always is. Shoving my hands deep into the pockets of my new, technically pre-owned, pre-ripped, and pre-battered-the-shit-out-of jeans, I sigh. It's not that my shitty Christmases get me all melancholy. I mean, the holiday is about family, and as fucked up as mine is, I still love 'em. They're family. It's an unwritten rule that you're supposed to love each and every one of their obnoxious habits. And I do. I love the way my dad downs Scotch like its fucking oxygen, and I love the way my mom thinks waffles are a nutritional meal. I love the way my older brother thinks anything that's wrong can be fixed by a decent beating, which I'm usually on the receiving end of, and I love the way my little sister thinks that one day a prince will come and save her from poverty. I tell her a college education will be more useful, but she swears by Prince Imaginary-No-Name's bank account, and who am I to tell her it's all bull?

Anyway, the thing that really gets me down about Christmas is my friends.

Don't get me wrong, I have the coolest friends in South Park. They're all fags, but they think they're cool, and thinking it is what really matters. Confidence is all just a state of mind. See, the problem is, we have this whole Secret Santa dealio. Every Christmas, the person whose name I pick out of Stan's poofy, dorky hat is subjected to the McCormick curse. They get the shittiest deal out of anyone, because my one stop shopping usually takes place at the Dollar Store. Meanwhile, Kyle's favorite place to pick out presents is Bose, and Stan's a total Abercrombie freak. Except when he's in goth mode, then he's all 'Hot-Topic-owns-my-dismal-despairing-soul'. Cartman tends to shop at the grocery store, because he really can't imagine up a better gift than food, but he can be pretty generous. So it all comes down to me. I've got my unwrapped present for my Secret Santa in the back pocket of my denims, and I'm quite certain that my gift will be as reviled as it is every year. It would help if we had a price limit on things, but the fact is, my range is about five dollars with a stretch.

I don't know. I always imagined that by senior year I'd have made something of myself.

My job down at the Stop-N-Pump gas station on Main pays _okay_. I work my ass off, but most of my paycheck goes to mom and dad so that baby sister and I can eat more than stale Doritos. Kevin contributes where he can, but he's trying to make his way through South Park Community College, and his funds are allocated to his tuition.

I plan on being even smarter than him. Ten percent of my weekly paycheck goes into a fund even I can't touch until college. It won't be much, but it'll be enough that combined with loans, I can get the hell out of this Podunk little town. Kyle helped me set the whole thing up a while back. That kid is genius. Possibly _the_ genius of our school.

Sure, you think I'm kidding. No one can know everyone in their high school.

Well, obviously you've never lived in a small town. Not only did I grow up with pretty much every single teenager in this shit hole, but our high school holds roughly two hundred and eighty kids. My senior class consists of sixty two obnoxious teens, and I know each and every single one of their names, and most of their parents as well. Everyone always knows everyone else's business. It's like living in the tabloids, and the paparazzi consists of the entire fucking town.

Have I mentioned that I kind of hate my life? I know I shouldn't; starving kids in Africa and India and all that. Even though I'm dirt poor, I'm not broke. I could buy myself new clothes; maybe not designer, but something decent. It would mean forgoing my nicotine habit and not paying my cell phone bill for a month or two, but I could do it.

No way would I sacrifice my family's food money though; welfare and unemployment only get you so much. Mom might score a temp job soon, but I can't count on that. You can't count on anything in life.

So what I've got isn't great, but it's more than poor kids in most third world countries get. Hell, I even have my own Okama Gamesphere now, and a TV to hook it up to. I'm a king, practically.

The present burning a hole in my pocket tells me I'm wrong. I'm not a king. I'm nothing but a shitty friend, who can't even buy a decent Secret Santa gift. As I make my way to Stark's Pond, I'm getting more and more depressed by the second. I slip on the icy curb, ending up with a sore butt and a scraped knee. The blood is a slash of red through the new rip I've just made in my jeans.

I must have been a really terrible person in my past life.

Sometimes I think there's nothing I have to look forward to. Then, even though they make Christmas hella depressing, I catch sight of my friends. They always cheer me up, even when they're the source of my misery. I see them now, all huddled around the giant stump of a pine tree, trying to get warm from the biting wind and cold. They're such fags.

There's Cartman. He's got enough blubber that I've seriously considered gutting him and sending the lard to one of those Japanese Whale Hunting companies for cash. The fact that he's my best friend is pretty much the only thing that stops me from it.

Stan's on his right, yelling shrilly about something or other that happened during last night's football game. I love how he always seems to think we care. Nobody's as much of a sports freak as Stan Marsh.

That brings us to Kyle. There's this thing about Kyle that I always liked.

Y'know how some people just look more alive than others? They have this spark in their eye that always means they're trouble, but also always means they're hella fun to hang out with?

Yeah, Kyle's got that. He's casting Cartman these conspiratorial glances that have something to do with some trick they're about to pull on poor, oblivious Stan. I wonder if they're going to dump him in the lake.

Its awful cold, and he might have my present with him if he's my Secret Santa. Those two dumbasses are probably too stupid to think of that. Taking pity on both the black haired boy and what could possibly be my present, I yell out a greeting.

"Kenneh! You bastard," Cartman seethes when he sees me, "Took you long enough to drag your po' ass down here."

I smile and flip him off. It's pretty much my go-to response when dealing with Cartman. He doesn't really understand anything else.

Kyle looks rather grumpy that he didn't get to dunk his super best friend in the lake, but he gives me a serene smile nonetheless. Stan, on the other hand, is a bundle of Christmas joy and nerves, as always. He throws his arms around my neck and mumbles, "Kenny, oh god, I got Kyle for the Secret Santa, and what if he doesn't like my present?"

Aw. There was no need for me to save Stan, now was there? Oh well. I neglect to tell him that he just totally ruined the point of Secret Santa. I now know that either Kyle or Cartman has me. That means I get cool new stereo equipment or a buttload of food.

Either way, this Christmas thing is looking up.

Now you may ask why Kyle participates in our Secret Santa when he's Jewish. Well, hot damn you people are Anti-Semitic. Just because people come from different religious backgrounds doesn't mean they can't take part in a little gift exchange. Hell, the more the merrier. Come Hindus, come Muslims, come Protestants and Mormons, come Jains, Sikhs, Buddhists, and…well, shit, I can't think of what rhymes with Mormons. That was supposed to be a little play on the whole on Dancer, on Dasher, on all you fucking reindeer with difficult freaking names, but obviously I ain't exactly the brightest guy around.

We talk for a little while; about how winter vacation's going to end too quickly, about which upcoming parties were going to be epic and which would be made of suckage. I don't know, we never really seem to be saying anything at all when we're talking. I think we all just enjoy the sound of each others' voices; even Cartman's annoying little drawl-screech.

Stan starts talking about this cute girl in his Trig class, and I can't say I really sympathize with him much. The other two are handing out advice on what he should do to get the girl's attention. Kyle of the opinion that he should just act like his usual jackass-sexy self. Which says a lot about Kyle, I think, but I keep my mouth shut on that. Cartman says something about just making her beg for it, and then telling her to go make him dinner. He hasn't improved on talking to chicks since we were nine. I don't think he ever will.

No one mentions Wendy. Not even me.

I figured out girls weren't really worth it after the first few times I brought one home. None of them understood why I wasn't _sooo_ upset over the fact that my mom and dad constantly fought. They told me that my parents were awful role models. When I begged to disagree, I got dumped. Each and every time.

You know what; you got an issue with my 'rents? Well _fuck you_. You know what they get out of fighting? Hot _hot_ makeup sex. It's kind of the reason they do it. And how does that make them bad role models? It's not like they don't love each other, or me. So yeah.

Girls are useless. They think they know everything about everything, which totally isn't true. Plus they never want to set things on fire behind the school. How's a pyro supposed to get his kicks?

Boobs are still cool, though. In fact, if there was any way you could lobotomize a chick legally and then keep her as a sex kitten, I'd so be there. All the fucking and none of the chit chat. You might say that's cold, but I'm male. We've all thought it at one point or another. If you've got an issue with it you're quite obviously of the needing-a-lobotomy-persuasion. Damn females.

I guess I also have an issue with the embarrassment factor. Cartman always used to say my house smelled like a sewer, and while that isn't particularly true, home sweet home's got a funk all of its own. Why would I want to bring girls there? So they can rag on my parents and my house? Fuck that shit.

I don't even like bringing my friends home, but at least they're joking.

Kind of.

We finally decide it's time to open presents. I hand my present over to Cartman, who predictably whines and bitches. I feel my face color slightly and pull my hood tighter around my face. Stan gives his present to Kyle, an anxious smile playing at his lips.

Poor kid's got it bad. I always figured that if anyone in our group was going to get hit by the homo bug, it would be Stan. He's been going strong with the ladies though; something about the combination of the letterman jacket and the emo hair makes them cream their pants. Go figure.

Cartman's present goes to Stan, and it looks like Mr. Kitty vomited wrapping paper on it. Fatboy has no idea how to wrap a gift.

Last but not least, Kyle gives his present to me. It's nowhere near as big as I expected. This isn't greed talking, just surprise. Kyle's gifts are usually predictable, but this neatly wrapped present he just handed me is tiny. I have no idea what's inside.

I look up in surprise, blond hair shading my eyes. I wonder if Kyle can even see my face from beneath the shadows of my parka hood. He's got a look of fierce concentration on his face, aimed directly at me. I think he's excited to see my expression.

Gingerly, I begin the process of unwrapping the gift, savoring the feeling.

* * *

A/N: So the Secret Santa with Kyle thing…I did a Secret Santa thing this year with a Muslim girl, a Jain girl, and a Hindu boy. Plus my Jewish friend and I exchange gifts regularly too. So I dunno, I didn't think it was fair that Kyle would be left out. It fact, I thought it was unrealistic. And yeah, sorry, no romance yet. It will jump right into it thought, possibly in the next OR third chapter. 'YCNGB' is still my priority story, so if you want me to update this, review. Otherwise I might forget about it. Pretty please?


	2. Come On Fallen Star

**Breathe Me**

_Chapter Two: Come On Fallen Star, I Refuse To Let You Die_

By: Jondy Macmillan

A/N: I title things by whatever comes up on party shuffle in iTunes- not the most original way, I'll admit- and was deeply amused when the first chapter ended up being a song called 'Died a Jew'. Ahem, continuing onwards. Oh, and this chapter's really short. I'm sorry. I wanted it to be longer. The next one definitely will be. I feel like I'm letting everyone doooooooooooooown.

* * *

Kyle gave me jewelry. I mean, okay, its guy jewelry, but how gay can you get? He's looking at me all tentative and hopeful while my grubby fingertips are stroking the shiny metal of the bracelet type thing in the box. I'm not going to tell him I would've preferred a dock for my iPod; not when he's staring at me like that.

"Thanks, dude," I utter, trying to sound totally gleeful and full of holiday cheer. Do Jews do holiday cheer? Here's hoping. He seems fooled, anyway.

I know, it's Christmas. I should suck it up and be fucking grateful. But jewelry? Dude, really?

From another guy? I told you my friends were fags.

Shaking my head, I tuck the box into the front pocket of my parka before he can ask whether or not I'm going to wear it.

He's _thinking_ it, I swear.

"So what are we going to do now?" Kyle asks, and maybe I was wrong and he could tell that his gift made me uncomfortable, because he's looking anywhere but me now. I almost miss having those killer green eyes trained on my face, because it's rare that I get that kind of avid attention. Unless it's from a cop trying to find something to arrest me for. Or form my little sister, trying to figure out whether passion pink or ruby red grapefruit lipstick better suits my skin tone.

"We're going to party," Stan cheers, and I consider once again that I should have let Kyle and Cartman dump him in the fucking Pond.

"No," I correct, shoving my hands deep in my jeans pockets, "You're going to party. I'm going to work."

"Kenneh," Cartman whines at me, his big fat lips letting little bits of spittle fly into my face. Eurgh.

"Yeah?" I ask, wiping the spit off my cheeks with my free hand. God. Now I'm probably infected with elephantitis or something.

I can't afford to get as big as Cartman. My family would never be able to feed me.

"Why don't you want to parteh?"

Sweet Jesus.

"What part of _I have to work_ do you not understand?" I'm snarling just a little, like a feral dog. Shit. I always get like this when someone wants me to go have fun and I have no choice but to work.

Merry fucking Christmas.

"But Ken," Kyle interrupts softly, "It's Christmas."

Gee. Really? I'm this close to snapping at him. What the hell does Kosher Boy know about Christmas anyway? Stan gives me a warning look and that's all I need to remember to keep my mouth shut. It's not Kyle's fault that I have to work every day of the week just to stay fed.

"I know, but my boss needs me."

"Call in sick!" Cartman protests.

"Why would I do that?" I give him the most ludicrous look ever. The fatass has no concept of responsibility. It makes me kind of jealous.

I used to be the same way, until Kyle took me aside last year and told me to suck it up and make something of myself. Which is why the pitying glances he's giving me now are really annoying.

"Maybe you can get off early?" Stan inquires brightly. He's always trying to make the best of a bad situation.

"Maybe," I agree, even though I know my hick of a boss is spending the whole night at some get-wasted-and-screw party with his wife. I think they're the redneck version of swingers. That or they're just promiscuous whores.

"See Kyle? Kenny could still come to the party!"

Kyle is smiling again. Only Stan makes him smile like that. They're super best friends, after all.

I mean, how gay is it to think of somebody as your super best friend anyway? That's a title that just screams _flaming_.

"Where's the party?"

"At Red's. Her parents are out of town," the redheaded Jew tells me, gathering up his stuff. His fingers must be numb, because they keep slipping off the mangled wrapping paper of his present from Stan.

I don't even feel the cold, but that might be because most of my nerve endings are dead from the brisk walk over here. I've probably lost three toes to hypothermia already.

"A'ight," I kick at the frozen ground beneath me, hoping that it's too dark for them to really see my expression.

Sadly, the stars and the moon are out full force tonight, and considering the fact I can see every freckle on Stan's unnaturally tan nose, I'm pretty sure that they saw. Wisely, none of the fags say anything. Well, for a minute, until Cartman opens his mouth and blurts, "And make sure you take a shower so your po' stink doesn't drive all the hos away."

I grimace and shove him, hard.

"Shut the fuck up, lardass."

I have a grasp of basic hygiene. Just because I don't get to enact it every day doesn't mean I don't know that I should be taking showers, washing my face, flossing, and brushing my teeth.

Oh, and using soap after I pee.

At first, I didn't care that I couldn't do the same things as normal kids. Now I have my own convenience store-stolen stash of products. Mostly because I'd like to keep my teeth until I'm at least eighty.

I watch them leave. Stan and Kyle are huddling together for warmth, and Cartman's got all his rolls of fat to keep him toasty. They're headed off to Red's, where they'll drink eggnog and whiskey and fucking girlie holiday drinks that'll warm them in a different way.

And then maybe they'll meet a girl. Well, maybe _Stan_ or _Kyle_ will meet a girl. If they don't decide to get gay with each other.

That'll warm them even more.

Meanwhile, I'll be at the Stop-N-Pump, freezing my skinny ass off trying to help out some dumb college chick from Jersey who doesn't know how to pump her own gas, or some asshole who can't figure out how to insert his credit card with the magnetic strip facing downward.

_It's alright_, I think, kicking the tree stump once for good measure. It makes a much more satisfying thud than the ground did.

As I walk to work, bracing myself against the cold, I think that I didn't want to go to the party anyway. I like the liquor, but I don't really like the girls, and I'm not a fan of parties. All that noise.

Maybe they just ain't my thing. I dunno.

Aw, who the fuck am I fooling? I wanna go to the party.

I don't get to, of course. I wrap up work near two in the morning. When I call Stan, he mutters something drunk and unintelligible into the phone.

Party's over, I guess.

I end up getting home to find my living room pitch black and my mother on the couch, sobbing her eyes out.

"Ma, calm down," I tell her, watching her hyperventilate, "What's the matter?"

"O-oh, Kenny," she sobs, "The electricity went out again. I was jus'- jus' trying to tell yer sister a nice Christmas story before she went to sleep, and then the lights-"

She hiccupped, effectively stopping the story. I could figure out the rest.

"Ma, it's just lights. Why didn't you put the candles out?"

"I used 'em all at T-thanksgiving."

"Did you forget I made you a stash under the porch?" I say, trying to soothe her. I don't ask where dad is, and why he's not doing this. I already know the answer.

Oddly enough, I don't resent him for being at the bar when my mom's crying on the couch. He can't really help it. He loves her, but he doesn't know how to deal with her moods.

Plus he can't stand being away from the booze for too long, which I understand. I've been trying to quit smoking, and the only thing that's gotten me is jittery nerves and a constant foul demeanor.

"I did," she gasps, "K-Karen must hate me."

"I doubt that, Ma. She's probably fast asleep. It's two, y'know?"

"Two?" she gives me this look, so full of childlike wonder that I have a feeling she's been sneaking Oxycontin from the grocery pharmacy again. My mother likes her pain killers, when she can get 'em. She also likes washing them back with jugs of wine.

"Yeah, Ma."

I help her up and into her bedroom, where she gets naked in a flash.

Jesus. I so didn't need to see that.

My mom probably sounds like some druggie bitch addict, doesn't she? She's not. This is a once every couple of months kind of thing.

She just likes to have fun, and sometimes having fun means dosing herself up with strong painkillers when dad's not around to occupy her time.

Making my way into my room, I collapse on my bed. It's dark, but that doesn't bother me. I like the dark. It makes it easier to see the blazing stars outside my window. I really like stars.

Even though they're so far away, sometimes they fall down the earth, like they want to get closer to us too. We get a lot of shooting stars 'round these parts.

Maybe I'm just philosophizing about nothing.

I've just about fallen asleep when I hear the knocking on my window. I see a glimpse of green outside my window, belonging to that damn worn out old hat Kyle always wears. Sure enough, when I manage to drag my ass up and over, I see him there, balancing on some old moving crates and a trash can.

"What the hell're you doing, dude?" I hiss, opening the window. Don't want to wake mom or Karen, or God forbid, Kevin, up. They'll yell like nobody's business if I interrupt their sleep.

"Kenny!" Kyle practically squeals, apparently delighted by the fact that I'm standing here.

Oh yeah. He's trashed.

"Dude," I mutter. I reach over the side of my house, ignoring the peeling paint scraping up against my elbows as I lift him up and through my window. He helps, kinda. Thank God for that, because I'm not strong enough to lift mister _center forward of the basketball team_ all on my lonesome.

"Kenny!"

"Yeah," I stare at him as he stumbles back onto my bed, making the whole house shake, "You said that already. How was the party?"

"The party was…" he starts cracking up, and I think he either drank way too much or someone slipped him somethin'.

"You weren't at the party!" he suddenly accuses, sitting straight up.

"Uh, no. I had to work. I told you."

"But Stan said you would come!"

"Stan said I would try to come," I correct, almost amused that I'm having a conversation on semantics with the smartest boy in school.

He's looking at me in much the same way my mom did before, "So Stan didn't lie?"

"Um. No. Stan didn't lie," I say, shoving a hand through my hair. I really want him to move so I can get back down on my bed.

"Oh. Good," and then he's dozing away, full out snoring so loud my window frame's shaking. Apparently, I've got the couch tonight.

Well, shit.

* * *

A/N: Not a very good chapter, but you know, I felt bad updating everything else and not giving Kenny a chance to talk too. Hehe, I have a story from Kyle's POV, one from Kenny's, and now one from Stan's too. No, I won't make one from Cartman's. Review!


	3. Nobody Gives A Fuck

**Breathe Me**

_Chapter Three: Nobody Gives A Fuck_

By: Jondy Macmillan

A/N: Ha! See, I have not forgotten Kenny. I think he's harder to write than Kyle and Stan because- well, the way I see Kyle in my mind is very straightforward, and not vulnerable in the least except when he doubts himself. And the way I see Stan is very earnest, a little more considerate of what other people are thinking or doing or feeling, and slightly neurotic. And the way I see Kenny is a lot more complicated- he combines this I-don't-really-give-a-fuck attitude with a genuinely good heart and at the same time, underneath it all, I think he still manages to feel worthless. I feel like I have to be in a certain frame of mind to even get close to writing that. And yet I still fail miserably…le sigh. I want to thank ya'll for all the reviews/alerts/favorites you guys have given me. You're showing a lot of faith in only two chapters, so much thanks! Keep it coming!

* * *

I like to think that I've got something going for me other than my devilish charm and my enthralling good looks.

No, really.

I'm not the most intelligent guy in town, sure, but I wouldn't want to be. Being too smart has got to be lonely. Being at the top always is.

On the other hand, I'm not stupid, either.

I'm not!

Okay, so before Kyle convinced me to get my act together, I was pretty much convinced that I was going to rot in South Park. Slow asphyxiation seemed like a more promising alternative than my future. But now, thanks to that sneaky Jew, I have options.

Options, for a guy like me, are pretty much a miracle.

What's _not_ a miracle is how _rank_ Kyle's breath smells this morning.

I wake up to find our limbs inextricably intertwined. Kyle's knee is uncomfortably close to my junk, and not just because he likes to toss in his sleep. There's no delicate way to say that you're attracted to one of your best friends, so I'll be blunt. I find Kyle's skinny ass immensely arousing. Sometimes I look at him and I want nothing more than to wind my fingers deep into that Jew fro of his and kiss him breathless.

So I might be exaggerating a little.

He's kind of cute. Sometimes I think that I wouldn't mind getting drunk and kissing his brains away, but it's not like I'm desperate. He's attractive. There are a lot of appealing dudes in this town. Kyle Broflovski is one of them.

I was blessed with immensely fuckable friends. Woe is me.

This doesn't make me gay or anything.

It doesn't.

_Shut up_, it really doesn't. Physically, I might allow myself vague moments of interest in the male anatomy, but guys aren't my cup of noodles. Just because chicks ain't worth it doesn't mean I don't find their breasts attractive or nothing, you know?

"Kyle," I nudge his leg with my foot, which happens to be my only free extremity.

I was going to sleep on the couch last night. Then I wouldn't have been in this predicament.

Why didn't I sleep on the couch?

Oh yeah. Because Kyle latched on to my ankle and drooled all over my foot before pulling me onto the bed. I was too tired to struggle, so I just fell asleep.

Damned Jew. He doesn't move.

"Kyle!" I try hissing a little louder. It's only say, eleven a.m., tops, which means that Mom and Pop haven't cracked an eyelid yet. No need to be unnecessarily loud and get them all riled up, is there?

Unfortunately my little redheaded friend doesn't seem to want to rise and shine.

If anything, he snuggles closer to me, his hand warm on my hipbone. Aw, geez.

If you're not familiar with the phenomena of morning wood, it doesn't mean you wake up and get instantly aroused by the beige paint on your walls. It means that you wake up already hard and raring to go for _no reason at all_. Having Kyle all up in my nooks and crannies certainly doesn't help the case.

I spend the next five minutes trying to tell Kenny Junior to behave himself or he's not going to get to reap the benefits of the porno video I stole from Kevin a few nights back.

Apparently trying to con your dick with vintage VHS doesn't do much.

Mostly it leaves me resenting the fact that my family can't afford a computer like everyone else living in the twenty first century.

I guess I could put aside some money from my job, but that would seriously cut into my college funds. I guess I'll just wait until I hit it rich with the Pick Six Lotto.

"Kyle," I reluctantly try again.

He's not going to wake up and hate me for having a boner. He's sporting one too, most likely.

I just would _prefer_ it if he didn't wake up to find us in the faggiest position possible. I think sleeping this way breaks guy code, or something. Whatever.

I am entirely masculine. I don't need to worry about things like this.

It's just Kyle, after all.

"Wakey wakey, sweetums," I mutter under my breath, nudging his leg again. My foot is icy cold, and this time I decide to use that to my advantage and rest it against his calf.

After a minute or so, his eyes flick open, startled. I'm suddenly staring into a sea of emerald green.

"Wha- Kenny?" he asks, his voice puzzled.

Great, my bed-head confounds the great genius Jew.

"Nice to see you too, sunshine."

Kyle shoots out of bed, never mind that he has to extricate his legs from mine so quickly that he must have foot whiplash. If that's possible.

"What are you doing in my room?"

Or the great _moronic_ Jew. Doesn't quite have the same ring to it, does it?

Patiently I say, "You're in my room."

It comes out more a drawl than anything else. Kyle narrows his eyes and glances around. He takes in my grimy walls, my tilted, torn posters, and the accumulated garbage strewn amongst my dirty clothes.

Then he nods.

"Oh."

Yeah. _Oh_. That's the only way to describe my shithole of a room. _Oh_.

"Do you want breakfast?" I ask briskly, standing and brushing off the pair of ratty sweatpants I wore to sleep.

"Breakfast would be good," he replies, still wearing that confused expression. He's wondering why he woke up in my bed.

He's wondering what happened.

Maybe he's just wondering what time it is, but that wouldn't be what _I_ was asking myself if I woke up in another dude's bed.

I hurry out of the room. It's kind of amusing seeing Kyle so lost.

I don't want to ruin the fun.

Burying my head in the freezer, I dig out a box of Eggo Waffles and stick them in the toaster. They're mildly charred by the time Kyle walks in, just the way I like them.

"Kenny, did you call my mom?"

"Dude, do I look like your babysitter? No way am I getting on the phone with your mom, ever."

He glares at me reproachfully, "She's going to freak."

"Not my fault."

"What happened? Why am I here?"

I don't half know myself. Good question, Broflovski.

"No clue," I say, munching on a side of waffle, "You showed up at my window round two thirty, complaining 'cause I didn't show up at the party."

Kyle's face reddens, "I don't remember any of that."

"Must've been some party."

"It was," Kyle murmurs, his eyes distant, "Wendy and Cartman hooked up on the pool table."

I raise an eyebrow, "Stan must've been crushed."

"Not so much as you'd think," Kyle mumbles, and I distinctly spot more blushing. Ok-ay. Strange.

"Did Stan hook up too?"

Him and Wendy have been dating on and off for years, but he's never been much for fidelity. Especially not if the bitch strayed first.

Kyle abruptly switches subjects, "Let's talk about something else, Ken."

Interesting. Very interesting.

Hmm.

Either Stan had a rousing case of public nudity to protest his ex's sick attraction, or he ended up getting it on with someone very unseemly. I wonder if it's that sophomore with the overbite that's been stalking him.

I resolve myself to ask Stan about it later. He's only slightly less squeamish than Kyle, but it'll only take a teensy bit of persuasion to get him to tell me about his exploits.

I am that charming, after all.

* * *

A/N: Short chapter, I know. I finally sort of have a direction for this. I want to clarify that there will be NO StanxKenny- I THINK. There might be one or two instances, but this is mostly Style and KxK. Primarily KxK, obvi. Ahem. The next chapter should be longer and feature lots of Stan, and the stirrings of an actual plotline. One can hope. Please review!


	4. When I Close My Eyes I See

**Breathe Me**

_Chapter Four: When I Close My Eyes I See_

By: Jondy Macmillan

A/N: Ummm…so. Next chapter. I have a poll question. Originally this was going to be very along the lines of You Can Never Go Back…very light reading, with a teensy bit of angst. Now I have two different ways this could go. One is very upbeat, the other is also upbeat, but with a couple of…roadblocks. So do you guys want me to include the downer chapters or skip 'em? It's up to you. Tell me in a review! And um, sorry for the short chapter in advance.

* * *

Most kids think winter break is just about the coolest thing to hit town since sliced bread.

I never really got how sliced bread is supposed to be cool though, unless you're poor like me, and you really would kill to eat some fucking bread.

Off topic.

Anyway, I personally find winter break equivalent to one of the circles of hell. I haven't read Dante, so I have no blitzing idea which one, but there it is.

You know what I get to do for my winter vacation, while all the other kids are figuring out new and creative ways to kill themselves tobogganing? Yeah, I'm working.

Now, I really appreciate my job at the Stop-N-Pump. I had to basically beg to get it three years ago when the manager was still unsure about hiring a fifteen year old liability. That's what he called me, a liability. I had to explain to him as nicely as possible that I ain't no liability, and that no one in town needed the money more than I did.

Luckily, the place was owned by a nice Sikh man who understood the value of hard work. He decided to try me out. By the time he got driven out of town by a bunch of pitchfork wielding 'concerned citizens', I'd been working there for six months and had a contract. The place changed hands to my new boss, but he had to either pay me some kind of severance or keep me.

I got lucky. He's a cheapskate bastard of a redneck, and didn't actually care that I was still technically a 'liability'.

Just because I appreciate the fact that I get to work doesn't mean I really have to like it, though. Spending my days assisting the morons who come by in their shiny little hybrids doesn't really tickle me pink, if you know what I mean.

So when break finally comes to an end, there isn't a happier teenager around. I may have missed all the parties, and I may have missed the chance to almost nearly break my neck sledding down a hill, but I've got enough money in my pocket to pay for lunch for the next few weeks and I managed to slip mom enough that we might actually have groceries to boot. As a reward, now it's practically the mandate of heaven that I get to spend time with my friends.

Heaven, or the government enforced laws that say I have to attend school.

Whatever. Right now heaven and the government are both distant, make believe places, while school is very, very real. I was never much fond of classes, but I always liked having an excuse to spend time with Kyle, Stan, and even Cartman. This year it's no different. I'm practically skipping to the bus stop today, ready to hear all the latest gossip. I don't know if you know this about boys, but we gossip.

Oh, yeah. We talk more than girls do, sometimes. But don't tell anyone. It would really ruin our reputations.

Stan's the only one standing there, knee deep in snow, when I reach the bus stop. He's shivering, listening to his iPod with his blue-eyed gaze affixed to the slate colored sky. Perfect. Exactly who I wanted to speak to. I lumber over to him, yanking an earbud from his ear.

"Ow! Kenny? What the hell, asshole?"

I grin, "Nice to see you too."

Stan isn't a morning person. Not that I am either. But I enjoy torturing my friends, which means I'm considerably more cheerful than he is.

He softens, but only slightly, "Yeah, yeah. Nice to whatever."

"Ooh, grumpy today, are we?"

"I'm not grumpy," he snaps.

"How was your vacation?"

"It sucked ass."

"Well that doesn't sound fun," I purse my lips theatrically, knowing that I'm just pissing him off more.

"You think, dickhole?"

I think of Kyle's reaction when I asked him about Stan after Red's party. I hate to admit this, but it's been killing me wondering what happened.

I have what some might call insatiable curiosity. Others might just call me nosy.

Others can suck my balls.

I also lack tact.

"So, I heard Wendy and Cartman hooked up. Are they like, datin' now?" I emphasize my natural drawl a teensy bit, just to annoy him more.

The way to get information out of Stan Marsh is to make him really angry. When he's in a rage he finds it impossible to keep his mouth shut, which is exactly what I'm aiming for.

"Where'd you hear that?" he turns a strange look on me, half-piercing, half-nervous.

"Around," I shrug, trying to look completely casual. It's hard to be casual when you're brimming with the desire to _know_, but I manage, somehow.

"D-did Kyle tell you anything?" Stan asks, his voice coming out choked.

"Kyle?" I run a hand through my hair thoughtfully, acting perfectly neutral, "No, I don't think so. Should he have?"

"Um…n-no. Nothing. Never mind. It doesn't matter."

Innocent as possible, I ask, "Stan? Did something happen?"

"No. Nothing."

"Are you sure?" I'm trying my best to look like a concerned friend. I mean, I am a concerned friend, but Kyle didn't react badly enough for it to be anything to serious. Sure, Stan's wound up, but Stan always gets wound up. The boy has more stress than the CEOs of most major companies.

"Drop it Kenny," he warns.

I frown. This isn't going quite like I'd hoped. Time for Plan B.

"Well, okay. But you know, Kyle did mention something a little strange…"

I trail off hopefully, figuring he'll infer what he needs to. He does.

"He told you?" Stan explodes, "I can't believe he told you. Oh my god, Kenny, it's not at all like you're thinking it is. I just…I was upset, about Wendy, right? I'd been flirting with Red, and she only hooked up with Cartman to piss me off, but either way, Red had got me all wound up, and then I got upset. And I needed to let off some steam, so I figured, I could just duck in the bathroom for like, a second."

The bathroom? What? I listen, attempting to make sense of his babbling.

"So then I'm…well, you know, obviously, and all of a sudden I just…God, this is so _embarrassing_. I can't believe he told you. Cartman's right. Jews are total backstabbing Judases."

"Stan, slow down," I say, "and tell me what happened."

"Well," he breathes, his cheeks scarlet, "All of a sudden, I was…and then…I saw Kyle's face. In my head, I mean. Usually I think about Wendy, but I was so mad at her, so I started to think about Red, because she's hot, and she was on my mind anyway. But I couldn't really picture her face right, and I like that. So I thought of red hair…"

I'm starting to understand why Stan's so mortified. The picture he's painting is a little more…personal than I'd been bargaining for.

"."

_What_? I look at him blankly.

"Stan, you have to say it slower."

He looks at me, seething, "I said I screamed Kyle's name just when he barged in the bathroom."

"You…um…oh."

"But you already knew that, right Kenny?"

I stay quiet. Stan's glowering at me.

"Kenny? Kyle _did_ tell you this, didn't he?"

"Um. Not in so many words."

"Kenny!"

"Okay, well how was I supposed to know you think about Kyle when you masturbate? What the hell were you doing masturbating at Red's party anyway?"

Stan reddens even more, "That's how I let off steam."

"You're a sexual deviant, Marsh."

"Kenny! I am not! You can't tell anyone!"

"I won't," I say, although I'm reasonably sure it doesn't sound reassuring. I wouldn't tell though. I'm not that big of a jerk.

Hesitant, Stan asks, "You've never wanked it at a party?"

I grin, "Nope. Never."

"Never?" he gulps.

"Never had the need."

I'm just being mean, I know. Stan's so cute when he's all morally outraged. And who'd have thought that he had a bit of those nasty ol' homosexual urges in him? Here I thought I was the only one who toyed with the idea. Not that I've ever jerked it to a dude. That's just nasty, man.

"Dude. I'm such a prick."

"Pretty much."

"Kyle's never going to forgive me. He came in the bathroom to make me feel better about Wendy…"

"About her being such a skank?" I guess.

"Yeah."

"Don't worry. He'll forgive you. I think he already has," I try to sound comforting, "In fact, here he comes now."

Stan's whirls on his foot so quick that he almost falls into me. There in the distance is our favorite redhead. I wonder if I should tell him that I know his deep dark secret now?

Maybe I'll just see what kind of mood he's in first.

* * *

A/N: Hmmm…yes, I got to the style bits before the k squared. But this will end in Kyle x Kenny. So there. It's just going to take a while.


	5. All The Secrets And No One To Tell

**Breathe Me**

_Chapter Five: All the Secrets and No One to Tell_

By: Jondy Macmillan

A/N: Haha, you guys' reviews entertain me to no end. Right now I've got a split vote for a little bit of angst versus no angst at all. Whelp, we've still got a while to go, soooo we shall have to see where Kenny decides to take me. He's got a mind of his own, this boy. This story is obviously going to move more quickly than YCNGB, but it's going to be a lot slower than say…Nothing But The Rain, which is like my baby when I'm feeling a bit psychotic. Which is always, but shhhh. Don't tell. Oh, BTW, I have nothing against community colleges. Really, I think they're great. Took summer classes and one semester at one, and I've got loads of friends who go to them. Just…Kenny doesn't, in this. So…yeah. Not trying to offend or anything.

* * *

Kyle's in a fine mood. Unlike Stan and me, he is a morning person. It's an obnoxious quirk of his that I let slide because he's so attractive, and you know, one of my best friends. Nobody should be so bouncy at eight a.m. unless they've ingested several Red Bulls and a caffeine pill or two to boot.

He calls out a greeting to us, which we both return. Stan gives me this anxious look that I feel almost bad about. He knows I'm going to mock him, if not in public, to Kyle at the very least.

"Kenny, dude-"

"Stan!" Kyle interrupts, red cheeked from the cold, "I thought you were driving today."

"Mom wouldn't lend me the car," he mumbles, "Too much snow."

Kyle gives him a weird look. He doesn't get why Stan seems so embarrassed, "Oh."

They must have either talked out what happened or Kyle decided to just ignore it, because he's acting perfectly normal, unlike my dark haired friend.

The bus screeches to a stop about two minutes after Cartman arrives, huffing, puffing, and stuffing a doughnut down his face. We climb on, me last. I grab hold of Kyle's jacket and hiss, "I figured out what got your boxers in a bunch."

He gives me a sharp glance, stopping in his tracks, but I breeze by him. I take a seat beside Cartman, ignoring the fatass's annoyed glare. Butters is in front of us, and he immediately launches into a description of the 'neato' sweater his parents got him for Christmas. Cartman groans and takes up staring out the window. I half listen to Butters, but most of my attention is on Stan and Kyle, the next seat over. They're whispering in hushed tones, but I doubt it's about the whole masturbation incident. I can feel Kyle's eyes on me the entire bus ride.

Getting off the bus, I nearly fall on my ass. I fucking hate ice. It's been sheeting the ground for months now. I'm not sure I actually remember what asphalt looks like. Summer can't come soon enough, but at the same time, I hope this semester lasts forever.

Kyle helped me send out college applications in November. I only applied to a few schools. I doubt I'll get in anywhere, even if I do have some funds saved up. My grades are only average. My SATs too.

Kyle says my score is enough to land me a decent school. I'm glad he believes in me. I still find it hard to trust that I can achieve something I work for, even if it does seem like things are looking up. All I can think is that mom and dad will be so damned disappointed if I don't get accepted somewhere.

Anywhere.

Sure, I could go to the Community College with Kevin, but they've been pinning their hopes on me for a real education for ages. Not high school part two.

Everyone's scrambling for their lockers before the bell rings, but I can feel a green eyed gaze on me.

"Kenny," Kyle hisses.

"Hey, Kyle. Wha'sup?"

"Dude, you talked to Stan," he says in a blunt way.

"Stan told you?"

"No. You did," he groans, "I wish you'd just left it alone. Stan's so embarrassed that I can't even get him to look at me."

"And you're not embarrassed?"

He reddens a bit, going the color of his hair, "I am. I just…I want my best friend back, you know?"

I frown and say pointedly, "I'm your best friend too."

Exasperated, he mutters, "Well, duh. You know what I mean, Kenny."

Yeah. I do. I'm his best friend, but I'm not Stan. I'm not the Super Best Friend. Fags.

We're walking up the steps now. Everyone else has fled inside. Out of the blue, Kyle says, "Let's skip."

My head snaps toward him, "What?"

"You heard me," he retorts, somewhat amused.

Oh yeah. I heard him. I just didn't think I heard right.

"Broflovski, you fuckin' surprise me sometimes."

He grins, "Gotta keep it interesting."

The way he grins is pretty interesting. He hasn't got that corn-fed, All American perfect smile like Stan. Of course his teeth aren't a mess like mine, either. My parents couldn't afford dental. I'm pretty good at brushing, but I still have a bit of a crooked smile. I decide that Kyle's smile is more in between, a mixture of pearly white and differently shaped teeth when I realize…I'm staring at Kyle's mouth.

You know, for somebody who hasn't decided if they're actually even remotely into guys, I'm acting pretty homosexual.

We sneak around the side of the school, towards the gym. There's nobody in there except the cheerleaders, who all have 'study hall', which is really code for practice, which is really code for 'let's-gossip-in-our-microscopic-skirts-and-hope-a-few-football-players-walk-by-and-notice'. Study hall is just less of a mouthful.

"Have you got a cigarette?" Kyle asks me, trying to give me a heart attack by acting completely out of character.

I give him a weird look, "What the hell's up with you today? You're acting like-"

"You?" he suggests.

"H'yeah."

Okay, let's get this straight right now. I don't smoke. No, really, I don't. I hate the way my fingertips reek afterwards; Cartman already makes fun of me enough about hygiene. Also, like I said, we can't afford dental. I've got no desire to have teeth the color of sunflower petals. But on occasion I'll lift a pack from my brother. He smokes so often he could get mistaken as a chimney, and I feel like I'm doing my fraternal duty by giving him one less chance at lung cancer.

Plus every once in a while it gives me something to do.

We settle down on the only dry spot on the pavement, and even so the cold seeps up through the butt of my jeans. I pull the pack out of my parka pocket and tap out a single smoke.

"Only one left," I tell Kyle, "Kevin must have raided it."

I'm not the only thief in the family, although big bro calls it _reclamation_. Funny how he also calls it that when he's five-fingering packs from my place of employment. Kevin is such a prick.

The only lighter I have is decorated with the confederate flag; a true sign that we live in hicksville. I watch the flame catch onto the end of the paper between my lips. The smoke traces in lazy spiral patterns towards the low hanging clouds.

I pass the cigarette to Kyle, "So. That thing with Stan. Is it weird?"

He gives me a warning look, "I don't want to talk about it."

"Okay."

He puffs smoke out, obscuring his face for a minute in a haze of carcinogens and hot breath, fogging the cold air. Then he says, "Yeah. It's weird."

"In a bad way?"

"I don't know. I mean, if Stan's going to be gay, that's great for him. But I don't know if…"

"If you want him to be gay for you?"

"Yes. No. Maybe. I don't even think he is gay. I mean, he was really fucked up that night. He did like five car bombs with Clyde. I've never seen anybody knock them back so quick. And then Wendy went all hobag on him…You know how it is."

I don't, but I don't say so either.

After a moment, he passes the cigarette back. Inhale. Exhale. Take it deep in my lungs, the way they tell you not to, and then push it all back out again. I feel my mouth blacken, my brain scramble for air. Another reason I don't smoke; it always makes me a little dizzy.

"Kenny?" he asks after a minute or so of exchanging the quickly burning cigarette. I turn to face him and find that his face is closer than I expected.

"Mm?"

I can't manage actual words right now. Who'd have thought Kyle's eyes were so damned…green? Not toxic green, like Melon Liquer, or green like the moss that grows on the trees near Stark's pond in the summer. No, Kyle's eyes are the color of fresh cut grass, or four leaf clovers. Lucky, that. Then there's these little gold-gray rings…shit. First I stare at his mouth, and now his eyes?

"Are you gay?"

"Uhhh…"

Now words are really impossible. I'd just been thinking what a super-fag I was, and then he asks that? How do you answer a question like that?

Shouting _no_, which is my first impulse, seems like the wrong move.

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't pry."

"Um. Er-no. It's okay. Um."

He stares at me, expectant.

"Why would you ask that?"

Kyle slumps his shoulders, "It's just…you're not really big on girls. I see them ask you out a lot…"

"Bitches, most of them."

"Well, yeah. But you're a guy. You're not supposed to mind," he points out.

That's true. Goddamnit.

"Girls just ain't worth it, for me. It's not like I can take 'em home."

"Why not?" he's serious.

"Kyle, you've seen my house."

"So?"

"It's kind of trashy."

"A little," he admits without shame, "That doesn't matter. Your parents are-"

"Loud. Slightly violent."

"Nice," he corrects, "I was going to say nice."

Now I'm the one staring, and I can see the reflection of my eyes in his. Green. Blue. Green. Blue.

"You for real?"

"Well, yeah. They brought you up, so they can't be half bad. Besides, they always give me waffles," he says with a smirk. I let out this short bark of laughter.

I don't know why, but his words make me feel good. Nobody's ever said they like my 'rents before. Nobody but me, and I have to like them. They're blood.

"You think I turned out okay?"

"I think you turned out better than okay."

"You're delusional."

"'ey," he grins, "That's my best friend you're talking about."

"Stan's your best friend," I rejoin.

He crosses his arms, the cigarette dangling between his fingers, burning so close to the butt that I think he might burn himself, "My other best friend."

I open my mouth to say something when we hear footsteps. We scramble to our feet, extinguishing the cigarette butt beneath the soles of our sneakers. Kyle stomps on it a few extra times, just in case. God forbid we burned down the school.

The gunshot click clack of high heels get closer. I hope it's not my math teacher. I hate math, and I hate the cunt who teaches it. She hates me right on back. We start to hurry towards the other side of the gym when a figure rounds the corner.

Well, it's not my math teacher.

In front of us stands a girl, wearing a green and white Park County High sweatshirt that's about two sizes too small and a denim mini skirt that's showing off too much leg for winter. She's wearing knee high stiletto boots and a honey sweet smile. Once upon a time I remember she had mousy brown hair. Now it's shining golden blond; dyed, just like every other fake ass girl in our year.

Why do girls feel the need to lie? Not verbally, but physically. They put on makeup to mask their real face. They dye their hair to hide what they really look like. Sometimes they even adjust their breasts. That part I'm not actually complaining about. In fact, I shouldn't complain about any of it. Without makeup, half the girls in town would look like dogs.

"Kenny! Kyle!" she calls from where she stands, expecting us to walk to her. We sigh. Busted.

Meet Heidi Turner. Head cheerleader, secretary on the student council, groupie of Wendy Testaburger, and all around cliquey female. We trudge over to her, wondering what the hell she wants.

It would be prudent to mention that I don't like Heidi very much.

Heidi envelops us in a wave of nauseating perfume, air kissing our cheeks. I don't know why she thinks this is an acceptable form of greeting. She tries to slip up and _accidentally_ kiss me on the lips, but I dodge. I know her type. They think sex is status, and status is everything.

Sadly, it's not even a high school thing. It's a real world thing that I've gotten to understand too easily.

"Kyle Broflovski," she purrs after I reject her advance, "I can't believe you, of all people, are skipping class."

Kyle rolls his eyes, "I, of all people, needed a break, thanks."

"Geniuses take breaks?" she squeaks in this little girl voice that she probably thinks is hella cute. I think it's going to pierce my eardrums one day. That would be an unpleasant way to die; killed by shrillness.

Kyle doesn't even dignify that with an answer. Good for him.

"And Kenny, I'm not surprised you're skipping at all."

This should be good.

"Why not, Heidi?"

"You like to be a bad boy, don't you?"

Sweet fucking Jesus, woman. Lay it on thick, why don't you?

This would be the reason I don't like her. She's been after me like a dog in heat since September. I see Kyle eyeing me with a ridiculous half-grin, which I return.

"No, not really."

I don't know what she expected. Did she want me to say, ooh yeah baby, I like to be bad? I mean, where do girls get these lines? Movies? Is this what the youth of America is learning these days?

Either way, she looks irked that I didn't say what she wanted. Gee. I'm afraid. The big bad cheerleader is glaring at me. She might decide to go Carrie on my ass and dump blood on me at the prom.

"You guys are going to get in trouble."

"Are we? We haven't so far," Kyle mutters, and I can tell that he's already bored with the conversation, "Unless you're planning on reporting us."

"I might," Heidi shrugs, a malicious smile playing on her lips.

I spot the first spark of fear in Kyle's eyes. For all his bravado, he's still a bit of a momma's boy. Every time he gets a detention (and I'll admit, they're usually my fault. Or Cartman's, the fat asshole) she goes on the warpath. Kyle has no apprehension of authority figures, but his mother is an entirely different story. That woman can move mountains when she's in a rage.

The she-beast purses her lips and says, "Or…"

"Or what?" I snap, not liking being bullied. Especially by someone who's five foot two. I've never understood why little people have superiority complexes. I guess seeing the world from down there must affect your belief system or something.

She glances at me, solemn, "Or…You guys could help me with the dance committee. We need some big strong men around to do the manual labor."

"That's what Mexicans are for," I inform her. I know for a fact that Wendy has the number of several on speed dial. She never liked doing her dirty work all by her lonesome, and the Mexicans in this town come cheap.

"They're getting cocky, overcharging. At least that's what Wends says."

Wends? Isn't that an adorable nickname? I wonder if Cartman gave it to her. Pssh.

"So basically, if we don't help you decorate for the dance, you're going to report us to a teacher."

Heidi smiles, "See. You are a genius. You do understand."

I'd like to rip that smile off her face. I wonder if I'd get expelled from school for giving the head cheerleader a cigarette burn?

Kyle shoves his hands deep in his pockets. On the one hand, I can tell it offends his delicate morals to give into blackmail. God knows, he's been strong armed enough by lardass in the past that he hates it. On the other hand, he's really terrified of his mom.

"Okay," I agree, taking the decision out of his hands. Anything to get rid of the wrinkle forming between Kyle's eyebrows.

"Okay?" Heidi grins, licking her lips like the cat that caught the fucking canary.

Choke and die, bitch. Choke and die.

"Okay," I say, my voice level. I meet her eyes, not liking what I see there. People who get off on subjugating others are a dime a dozen. It'll be a cold day in hell before I decide that it's okay to do so.

"You better get to class," Heidi suggests, tilting her hips just so. Her mini skirt rides up to show more milky white thigh than usual. Against my will, I check to see if Kyle is looking. Is bitch his type?

He is, but he quickly glances away. He nods and says, "Alright."

Then he marches away, not even looking back to check if I'm following. He knows I will. Bastard.

I take a step in his direction, but I find myself stopped by the cold, clawed grip of Miss Thang.

"Kenny," she says in a low voice, "Stick around awhile."

"I don't think so," I reply, extricating myself from her grasp. The smell of her perfume is overwhelming. It turns my stomach.

"What can I do to persuade you?" I swear to fucking god, her hand goes to the pocket of her too tight skirt and she pulls out a couple of crumpled up twenties, "Will this help?"

"You're trying to buy me?" I ask, incredulous.

She looks at me, her eyes heavy lidded. Girls think they can get everything with their bedroom eyes and their perky little breasts. And she does have mighty fine breasts.

"Consider it…incentive," she murmurs, "I heard you're a great lay."

Dude. Not on my life.

Coolly I reply, "I'm not for sale."

"Why? Because you're a fag?" she sneers at me.

I shrug and snort, "So what if I am? Either way, I'd never sleep with you. Prob'ly get the clap or somethin'."

I don't stick around to watch her get offended. She's worthless.

"Fucking redneck queer!" she yells after me, but I keep walking. She means nothing. Nothing.

I have to keep telling myself this every time it happens.

Imagine what it's like to be so poor that people think your body's got a fucking barcode on it. I've had people offer me money before, girls and boys. I turn it down every time. No matter how poor my family gets, I'm not a whore. I've thought about it, a lot of times. It would be so easy. Sex is just so damned easy.

Looking in the mirror afterwards isn't.

I chase after Kyle, and find him waiting around the corner. He grins at me and says, "So, wanna go to Shakey's?"

"You still want to skip?" I demand, feeling a grin tug at my lips. Hell yes. I knew there was a bit of the devil in the redhead yet.

"Only if you're up for it, Ken."

I feel something in my stomach turn, but this time in a good way. Like warmth and light are pooling there.

"I'm up for anything," I answer, twisting my mouth into a smirk, "Let's go."

See, this kind of thing? It's what makes living worthwhile.

* * *

A/N: That's a wrap, kids. Not of the story, of course. Oh no, we have a nice little journey ahead of us. I was going to update YCNGB tonight too, but I've got a paper to write…le sigh. Please review.


	6. You Can Change Your Mind, That's Just

**Breathe Me**

_Chapter Six: You Can Change Your Mind, That's Just The Way It Goes_

By: Jondy Macmillan

A/N: Whoops, sorry guys. I know you got alerted to chapter six, and then it wasn't there. I decided I didn't like it and took it back down for a little revamp, which I've NEVER done before. I'm actually still not satisfied with the chapter. It feels different than my other ones, more serious, but Kenny's refusing to cooperate. Apparently he wants to be serious. Gah, my newest addiction is Christophe/Gregory, and I don't know why there aren't more fics for it…Maybe I shall write one. God. I totally don't need to write a new fic. But the pairing makes me go ZOMGEESQUEE. Which is a really hard noise to make if you think about it. Okay. About the fic. Um…the beginning might be offensive to some. I apologize in advance.

* * *

I spend the entire day with Kyle. For a smart kid, he's a riot to hang out with. He likes to people watch, to point out flaws in those who walk by.

"Dude, that chick totally looks like she has Down's syndrome."

"That was so politically incorrect that I'm not even going to comment, man," I mutter, trying to stifle a laugh into the sleeve of my sweatshirt.

"Oh come on!" Kyle blows air between his lips, making a whistling noise, "You can't live life so seriously."

"So I should ruthlessly make fun of people who are so ugly that they look like they might have some kind of disability? Have you ever considered that maybe that's insulting to those with the disability?"

Kyle thinks about it for a second, his eyes crinkling with concentration. Then he says, "No."

I roll my eyes heavenward, "Do you care?"

He laughs, "Not really. Jesus Kenny, lighten the fuck up."

"I'm just saying, doesn't it piss you off when people make fun of that gigantic Jew nose of yours?"

Kyle stomps his foot like a third grader and says in an ironic voice, "But I have a gigantic Jew nose. I accept the physical deformations God gave me, and so should Down's syndrome face lady over there."

I'm not longer able to play the Devil's advocate. I can't help it. I'm shaking with laughter, "Dude. You're so mean. And your nose is not a deformation."

"I know, but we can't all be as stunningly attractive as me, so I thought I'd try to lower myself to fit in with the rest of you plebes."

I shift towards him, gasping, "Douche. What the fuck do you mean, the rest of us? You're categorizing me with that lady? She looks like someone hit her face with a brick."

"Oh, that's not insulting at all," Kyle grins, his eyes on the woman in question who does in fact have a rather unfortunate face. It slightly resembles a pug. It doesn't help that she's decided to dress herself in what looks like a recycled brown paper bag. I swear, ugly people would be so much more tolerable if they at least had some semblance of fashion sense.

I pick at the holes in my jeans, laughing inwardly at the thought. I'm hardly an authority on the matter.

"Shut up. I am not ugly," I tell him, indignant. How dare he imply that I look anything like pug-face? Pssh. He's lucky he can even be in my presence. I may not be a young god on earth or anything, but I'm definitely attractive. Right?

Shit. Am I hideous, and no one ever thought to tell me?

I think he can read the panic on my face.

"I didn't say you were ugly," Kyle chuckles, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jeans. I envy the way he can look so casual in an outfit that probably costs more than my family scrapes up in a month. I know I saw that shirt he's wearing in one of those hoity toity stores in the mall, as my mom likes to call them. Mostly because she's envious that she can't shop there. She'd probably be kicked out should the second she ever tried to step in one. Don't get me wrong. I love the lady. She just has a very peculiar stench. I think they call it Eau de No Money.

"So?"

"I just said you're not quite as gorgeous as me," he teases, fluttering his eyelashes spastically. He has nice eyelashes. Long, full, and so, so red. They make the green of his eyes really pop and shit, I'm doing it again.

Do you know how fucking hard it's been for me, all day, to not stare at Kyle? The guy's attractive, sure, but this is something deeper. I'm starting to think I might be developing a condition.

A condition called Can't-Take-Your-Eyes-Off-The-Sexy-Jew-Syndrome.

I think of Stan, and realize I'm not the only one affected by it. I've rarely spent entire days alone with Kyle, but now that I have, it seems like I'm getting more and more infatuated with him. He's got this sense of humor that for lack of a better word…fucking sparkles. That was two words. Oh well.

And I've already established that he's a fine specimen of a guy. I've spent more than a few minutes fantasizing about how scrawny he really is beneath those clothes of his. Plus he's so damnably nice. Well, not to pug-face, but to me. People rarely find the time to be kind to poor boys. People rarely find time to acknowledge me at all. In fact, maybe it's Kyle's attention that I find so intoxicating. I can't tell. I don't even know if I care. As long as he keeps looking at me, talking to me; I'm happy.

I'm not going to act on it or anything. I'm not going to do anything at all. Days like these, when you can laugh so loud that you feel it all the way to your stomach; they're rare. I plan on enjoying it. Who knows when I'm going to get another one? It's not worth it to ruin my mood by thinking about what I do or do not feel towards my own gender.

Which doesn't stop me from bringing it up.

"You," I begin, "You are such a homo."

"Why? Because I embrace my inner gorgeous?" Kyle's voice goes up in pitch on the last word, making him sound like one of those stereotypical gay guys on TV. He even does this little twirl thing that I'm absolutely certain he learned from Big Gay Al. I told him and Stan that if they spent too much time with that guy that his cooties would rub off.

"Yeah. Exactly," I look away from him in mock-disgust, but I'm still trembling with laughter.

He places his hands on hips, cocking his head to the side, "Maybe it's time you do the same thing, Kenny."

My heart beats like crazy. I glance up, confused at his serious tone, "Wait, what?"

"You never answered my question."

And there goes the day. He just had to ruin it.

"What question?" I ask, even though my mind has already raced back to earlier in the day. I hear his voice in my head. Are you gay? How am I supposed to really answer something like that?

"You know what question," he mutters, narrowing his eyes.

We're standing on Main Street, and he wants me to confess to the world that I like cock? I don't think so.

"Refresh my memory," I say, grabbing his forearm and pulling him after me into the little alley way between Shakey's Pizza and Harbucks. It smells like oregano and the sticky sweet pungency of old milk and flavored syrups. I have to avoid trampling over rotting garbage, which spills over the frost covered ground like so much toxic waste. Here and there I can see the black of the asphalt, glittering with mica chips like diamonds in the filtered sunlight.

"Taking me back here to ravish me?" he asks with an arched eyebrow. I swear to Jesus, this boy might be channeling the devil. He's smiling that irksome, crooked smile of his that shouldn't have any impact except to annoy me, but somehow makes my stomach do back flips. I'm not even going to think about what that might mean.

"You wish, Broflovski."

"Maybe," he shrugs his shoulders and grins even wider, "So, does that mean you're into dudes?"

Okay. This is so not a laughing matter. I think of how calmly he asked me before, and how he seems to be taking it as some kind of twisted joke now. And it hurts. I don't know why, but I fucking feel like he stabbed me or something, because he's treating me like I'm invincible, like I'm not a real person.

I'm Kenny McCormick. Fuck, maybe I'm not real to him.

"I thought we went over that," I admonish him, releasing his arm. Mostly because I'm uncomfortable touching him when he's asking me something like this. Then I'd have to associate 'gay' with him, with touching him. My mind might start to play tricks on me; make me think I'm 'gay' for him.

Maybe I fucking am.

I don't know anymore.

It's weird the shit your mind comes up with when you're not paying attention. Like right now I'm focused on the shiny glint of the safety pins holding his Converses together, and the way the snow's drifted into patterns like the lace doilies Cartman's whore of a mom puts out all over her house. Sometimes it looks like the place experienced an explosion of the Martha Stewart Collection. Odd how it can be replicated, here, in a trash ridden alley.

"You told me girls aren't worth it," he proclaims smartly, "That's not an answer-"

I shove my hand over his mouth, cutting off whatever else he had to say, "Dude. Do you have to be so loud? Announce it to the whole town, why don't you? They can throw me a fuckin' comin' out party."

Kyle glares at me balefully, and mumbles something against my palm. Shit, his lips are soft. I pull my hand away like he burned me, mostly because I can't control the tingling feeling of his mouth moving against my skin.

"Wha'sat?" I ask, trying to cover for my completely un-smooth move.

"I said I wasn't that loud," he scowls, rubbing at his lips. Maybe to get rid of the taste of me. I look away.

"Anyway, Kenny, what you said before? That's not an answer, that's an excuse."

"It's not," I insist, my temper rising, "Girls are annoying."

I imagine what my dad would say if he knew this conversation ever took place. He would think his son was less than a man. That's what I'd be, if I were gay.

But I'm not. I just get turned on by boys on occasion. Like Kyle.

And I don't like girls.

It doesn't mean anything.

I swear.

"Girls like Heidi Turner are annoying," Kyle corrects, like I didn't know she was the anti-Christ rather than the norm, "They're not all like that. If introducing them to your parents is the only problem, you shouldn't be confused about your sexuality. You'll find a girl who accepts you for you."

Yeah. I'll find a girl who doesn't mind Christmas shopping at the dollar store and experiencing embarrassing body odor every time we go to visit the family. I'll find a girl who doesn't mind that my grandpa thought the Confederates won, and that my dad thinks scotch is a suitable replacement for oxygen.

Fat fuckin' chance.

"Gee, thanks Doctor Phil," I say scathingly, "Who the hell said I'm confused about my sexuality?"

I never said that. I seem to remember skillfully evading the question by asking what gave him the idea in the first place.

I never said I was fuckin' confused.

I never said anything of the sort. Damn Kyle, thinks he's so damned smart.

This conversation is escalating into a fight. My blood pressure is rising. I feel my blood boiling.

I'm not ready to talk about this. Why can't he see that?

"Kenny, I was just-"

"What, trying to get me to say I'm gay?" I demand angrily, "If you're lookin' for a queer why don't you go psychoanalyze that super best friend of yours?"

My mouth's running ahead of me, the way it always does when I'm pissed. My fingers ball into fists, and I resist the urge to take a swing at Kyle, who's mouth has dropped open so wide he could catch flies.

"Dude, weak!" the redhead exclaims, "Leave Stan out of this!"

I remark, "Oh, you would like that, wouldn't you? You want to forget that he likes to cum screamin' your name? Hunh, Kyle?"

I hear the drawl and slur of my words. I sound like a jackass. I sound like my dad. A redneck through and through. I guess your roots always come back to bite you in the end. After all, I always sound this way when I'm trying to pick a fight. It makes it easier. It makes it feel like it's not really me. Unconsciously my fingers fly to my neck. I touch the cool metal of the necklace Kyle gave me.

It only makes me angrier. Why would he give me something like this? Why am I even wearing it? Because I'm such a fag? Is that why he thought I'd like jewelry better than electronics? Does something about me scream flamer?

I'm about to wrench the necklace from my neck when Kyle's hand encases mine. It's rough, calloused from basketball, but cool. My hands are clammy, but hot from rage.

"Don't," he says, and I don't know what he means until I realize his eyes are on the necklace.

I let go.

"I think," he takes a deep breath, "I think that you need to figure out why talking about this makes you so angry, Kenny."

All my anger drains away. What just happened? I haven't been that angry…God. I haven't been that angry since the time mom got drunk and broke her arm when she slipped down the porch stairs, and everyone in town claimed it happened 'cause dad beat her.

I'm normally such a laid back person. How did he get under my skin like that?

"I know," I reply, my voice quiet. The shade of the stores we stand between increases as the sun disappears behind some clouds. I bet it's going to snow. More. Fuck.

"It wouldn't be the end of the world. If you don't like girls, I mean."

Kyle's hand is still touching mine. Why is he still touching me if he was so disgusted by my fingers over his mouth? I think of the way he wiped at his lips before.

"You think?" I can't help the sarcasm in my voice.

Kyle gives me an admonishing look, "I'm serious, Kenny. I know you've thought about it."

How does he know? Up until now I didn't even realize that I was upset about it. I didn't realize that talking about it would make me angry. I didn't even really consider liking guys as a definite; just a future option when girls inevitably fell through. It was this abstract idea that I acknowledged, but didn't take seriously. And now it's here, in my brain. Somehow I doubt it's going to leave anytime soon.

Stupid Kyle, and his stupid insatiable curiosity. This is his fault.

"Why does it matter so damned much?" I ask, hating how helpless my voice sounds.

Kyle shrugs, letting go of my hand, "I don't know. Maybe it doesn't."

His answer bothers me. I don't care. I don't want to argue anymore. I fake a grin, "Good. Let's drop it."

He sighs, obviously not believing my charade for a second, "If you want."

I do. God, he has no idea how much I want to. Suddenly hanging out with Kyle doesn't seem as fun as it was. I'd rather be in class. I'd rather be at the Stop-N-Pump. I'd rather be home, letting my little sister attempt to braid my hair. Anywhere but here sounds good right about now.

I have to act normal. I have to act like me.

Against my instincts, I wrap my arm around his shoulders and guide him out of the alleyway, "So. How about you buy me a piece of pizza?"

"You can't be hungry!" he exclaims, the previous subject suddenly forgotten.

"Hey. We've been standing next to Shakey's for like half an hour. It smells so good," I tell him, laughing. It's genuine now. His reaction was so…cute. Shit.

Kyle smiles at me, saying, "Okay. Freeloader."

"You know it," I respond, and even though I sound light, inside I'm anything but. I think of the necklace, the pendant dangling in the hollow of my throat. I'm going to take it off when I get home.

* * *

A/N: Kenny's accent. Okay, so they way I write Kenny's accent is that it only comes out when he's doing it on purpose or when he's upset. In the show he talks normal, so I see no reason that he actually even NEEDS an accent. I just find rednecks kind of hot- must be hotwired into my DNA, or something. Thus we have the accent. But in case any of you noticed the way I sometimes take the 'g' of his –ing's, but not always, that's the reason


	7. Cause It Makes No Sense To Walk In The

**Breathe Me**

_Chapter Seven: Cause It Makes No Sense To Walk In The Dark_

By: Jondy Macmillan

A/N: So even though Kenny has fully taken over this fic and is trying to direct me to places I don't want to go, I find that it's almost more enjoyable this way. Every time I write a new chapter of Brace Yourself and it seems like it's in the lead, Kenny beckons to me going 'write, write'. Well, my subconscious Kenny. I don't hallucinate South Park characters, despite how truly epic that would be. Then I'll complete a chapter of this and Stan will be in my head calling me back. Thus the two stories stay in a perpetual tie. It's fun though. Meanwhile Kyle of YCNGB just sits back laughing because he's so far in the lead that these fics will never catch up. Yes, the characters in my head have fic wars. Yes, I realize I should go get my head checked out. No, I do not plan to. I like being crazy. Please review!

* * *

I spend the walk back home thinking about Kyle. My mind's stuck in rewind, looping the day over and over again before my eyes. I think of Kyle sitting beneath the florescent lighting in Shakey's, his hair the red of autumn leaves, his gaze unwavering as we discussed the kind of stupid shit that makes life interesting. You know; which teachers suck ass, which movies are going to rock, and which of our friends is the biggest dick. We stay away from the topic of girls, or anything to do with sex, for that matter. I think it makes both of us more comfortable that way. Kyle paid for a large cheese pie, which the two of us devoured like animals, or you know, teenage boys. Which we are. So there. The mozzarella stretched across my lips, burning hot, and Kyle ended up with tomato sauce across his chin. The air was filled with the spicy scent that occupies most Pizzerias; oregano, crushed pepper, and deep fried bread. In the back I could hear the sizzle of meat cooking, maybe pepperoni.

Yes, I have an unhealthy preoccupation with food. It happens when you don't ever get enough.

Even though the conversation we had in the alleyway disturbed the hell out of me, and I'm studiously NOT thinking about it, I can't help but think about Kyle. He's warm, and open. He calls me on my bullshit. He has no problem stating what he thinks. He's some kind of amazing, I guess. I should be thinking that I'm lucky to have him as a best friend.

Instead I'm remembering my first crush.

Y'know the funny thing is, I don't even remember her name. But there's other things I can't forget, like her smile, and the clumsy way she was always falling over things. She was the one who told me she liked me. She was so shy. She said, "Kenny…I think you're kind of cute."

I thought it was a miracle. She was the cute one. She had long, shiny hair, and clear eyes. I really, really liked her eyes. I'd never seen anything so green before.

Our first and only date ended when I took her home and she told me that my house smelled like a dumpster. I was seven, and I told her that she could fuck herself.

I had kind of a dirty mouth when I was a kid.

I haven't thought about that girl in ages. Maybe it's because I haven't felt as good as I did on that first date until now. That fluttery, stomach moving feeling is back in my stomach. I tell myself it's because for the first time in ages, I think Kyle's not joking when he says he considers me a best friend. I don't really have best friends. I have Stan, Kyle, and Cartman, sure, but Stan and Kyle are practically Siamese twins, and Cartman isn't capable of being anyone's confidante. I guess I always saw myself as the loner of the group. Knowing that I'm not so alone; that must be what accounts for this feeling in my chest.

Yeah.

I find my dad and Kevin sitting on the porch. Both are cradling brown bottles with the labels torn off that don't quite disguise the stink of a brewery emanating from the two of them. That stuff sure as hell ain't root beer.

"Lil' bro!" Kevin cheers, holding his bottle up so that the setting sun highlights it red and gold. Kind of like Kyle's hair.

"Kevin," I acknowledge, "Don't you have night classes?"

He leans toward me, practically falling out of the rickety plastic porch chair. In a confidential tone he says, "I'm playing hooky."

I grin. We're definitely related.

"Me too," I reply. My dad shoots me a dark look, but he doesn't say anything. I see the red plastic cooler full of label-less beers near his feet, and I make a grab for one. Murderous, dad slaps at my hand, but I've already succeeded in stealing a bottle.

He eyes me suspiciously as I use the hem of my shirt to twist the cap off and then says, "Alrigh'. But don't you go letting yer mother see. She'll scream like a banshee outta hell."

I smirk, "No worries, pop."

Then I make a grab for his hat, too. I can tell he really wants to smack me this time, but he's too lazy to actually get up from the lawn chair. Victorious, I twirl the red trucker hat around in my fingers. My dad's had this thing since I was small. As I pass it over my face on the way to my head, I can smell his unique scent. Dishwater cologne, cheap cigars, and a mixture of alcohol. Mmm, smells like home.

I take a long gulp of my beer before settling on the only seat available; the splintered railing of our porch. I can feel shards of wood sticking into my ass, but I don't really care. The sun's setting. My family's here. Life's good.

"So, Kinny," Dad says, his accent thick. He grew up in Missouri, which he pronounces Missour-a before moving to South Park when he was four. Even though he didn't drop out of the education system 'til high school, the twang of his words is apparently a souvenir from his 'old home'. At least that's what he says when my siblings and I bug him about trying to not sound like he comes from a place where incest is an acceptable form of socialization.

"Yeah, pop?"

I call him pop because it annoys him. He claims he's not a carbonated beverage. I just think it's funny. Old people are a completely viable form of entertainment sometimes; like when you're so poor you don't own a TV.

"Boy," he growls, "What'd I tell you 'bout callin' me that?"

"You're changing the subject," I say sweetly, "Pop."

Kevin just rolls his eyes and takes a sip of his beer. He's used to me antagonizing dad. Who do you think I learned it from?

"Knew I shoulda washed yer mouth out with battery acid 'stead of that soap yer mother used," dad mutters, "Woulda taught you when to keep that mouth of yers shut."

Yeah. And I wouldn't have had a tongue. Good ol' mom, looking out for my ability to speak.

Dad's a good man. He just gets dumb ideas when he's drunk, which is often. However, I think we can safely say that dumb ideas happen even to the best of us when we're plastered. Hell, I can think of a few stories…

"Kinny," dad starts again, "Kivin."

"Yeah?" we chorus, wondering if he's ever going to get to the point. I look through the thick brown glass of my bottle, watching the sun ripple into a muddled picture of golden light through the amber liquid inside.

"What should I get yer mother for Valentine's day?"

"Fuck, I don't know dad. Valentine's day is a long time from now." Kevin scoffs, reclining his feet up against the railing. I feel it tremble under my butt. Shit, I hope it doesn't collapse again. Last time that happened I ended up with a wooden spike near my heart. It took forever for me to bleed out and come back.

"S'true," my dad agrees, running a hand through his thick, sandy hair. It's touched with gray here and there, a constant reminder that the old man's getting older, along with the livers spots on his hands and the crows feet 'round his eyes. I don't like to think about my parents aging, dying. I don't like to think about a lot, I guess. I should make a list.

"Yeah," I agree, "But it pays off to be prepared. 'Member when last V-Day you ended up getting hosed at that restaurant you were planning on taking her to 'cause she was late dropping Karen off? And then you puked all over her the second she walked in the door?"

My dad glares at me, his watery blue eyes fierce.

"I'm just sayin'," I grin cheekily, "Maybe you might want to pick out a better gift than vomit this year."

He mutters something about the 'mouth on me'. It's our way of bonding.

"Get 'er a gift certificate to IHOP," Kevin puts in, flipping the beer bottle cap over his knuckles and through his fingers. I've always been jealous of that trick. He tried to teach me a few times, but I'm not nearly coordinated enough for it.

"IHOP," my dad muses, "She does like them pancakes."

I laugh. Only my dad and my big brother would think that a gift certificate to IHOP is a romantic present.

"So Kenny, why ain't I seen you with a girl yet this year?" Kevin asks suddenly. I glance up at my dad, but he's mumbling to himself. Probably over whether mom'd like a gift certificate for IHOP or Benny's better.

"Ain't found one I like," I reply, eyeing him suspiciously, "You haven't got one neither."

"I do, actually," Kevin straightens, "Met this fine piece of ass up at the CC. She fucks like a bunny."

Wow, big bro. TMI.

"Your exploits are ever fascinating," I murmur in a low voice. Dad doesn't like it when we talk about sex in front of him. I think his secret fear is that we'll get some chick knocked up and end up having a shotgun wedding. I don't know why the thought terrifies him so much. That's not how mom and he ended up hitched, although I think I've got a few uncles who did look down the barrels of a few guns.

Then again, they were in Vietnam.

"They are," Kevin agrees with a self-satisfied smirk. My brother's got a bit of an ego problem. I think it's genetic, actually.

At first I think I've distracted him since he seems caught up in a day dream about his grade A tits-n-ass girl, but instead he turns to me and says, "So what's yer excuse?"

"Like I said," I grit my teeth, "The girls in my year are dogs."

"That's a lie," Kevin barks with laughter, earning us a quick, chastening look from dad, "I've been to your school, Kenny. That place is filled with babes."

"Jailbait babes," I correct.

Kevin shrugs, "Don't matter if you ain't caught. Fact, it don't matter for you at all. Get with one of 'em."

Not on his life. I hate the girls at my school. Example: see Heidi Turner. I don't care if Kyle thinks she's not the norm. The rest of the girls are dying to be from the same mold as her, or even worse, Wendy the skank. I don't want a girl whose goal in life is to be a domineering, cheating bitch.

Dude, I don't even know if I want a girl.

Maybe Kevin knows, 'cause he says, "If you don't, dad and I are gonna start thinkin' yer one of those queers."

"I'm not gay, Kev," I mumble under my breath, hoping against hope that dad isn't listening in.

"I know that," Kevin observes, "But you sure do act like it sometimes. Maybe you should stop hangin' out so much with your faggy friends and start concentratin' on real life."

I let him insult my friends. I don't even comment on how my brother's interpretation of real life is getting laid. He's dumb, but he's blood. Instead I just say nothing, chugging the rest of my beer down in one gulp and keeping my eyes on the sunset. It's the only way I can keep from thinking.

* * *

I lie in bed later that night wondering why everyone thinks it's the opportune time to interfere in my life. Kyle and Kevin both want to know if I'm gay. Why does everyone keep asking? Did Cartman put an ad out in the paper or something, with a nice byline that reads 'Kenny McCormick's a flaming faggot'? Seriously, there has got to be a reason that people feel its okay to pry into my life out of the blue like this.

You know this is probably only the third or fourth time ever that I've spent an entire day alone with Kyle. I remember the first time. It was last year. Kyle had just gotten his driver's license, and he made plans for Cartman, Stan, and I to go to a concert to celebrate. At the last minute, Stan got busted by his parents drinking and necking with Wendy. Cartman ended up getting a better deal, by which I mean his mother decided that she'd take him to one of those fancy themed restaurants with a 'client' that night. Fatass never could turn down food.

So Kyle and I got into his car and made the drive to Denver. For the first half, it was a long, quiet ride, riddled with occasional perverted comments (from me) and a few intellectual remarks (from him). It was like we didn't really know how to get along together without Stan and Cartman watching our every mood. At first I thought that maybe Kyle just didn't know how to operate correctly without his bestest butt buddy around, but I knew I'd seen him surviving all on his lonesome on occasion at school, so I tried my hardest to make conversation. Eventually the topic of school came up.

That's when Kyle began lecturing me about making an effort. He hasn't stopped since. But that time, on the drive to Denver, it was the first time that anyone had ever really taken an interest in my education. Sure, my teachers would tell me I needed to work harder, or pay attention better. And mom would yell when I failed classes, getting perilously close to repeating a year or two. Still, none of them ever asked me how I felt about it. They just talked at me and expected me to understand what I was doing wrong. Kyle's the first person who ever got through to me, on the way to the concert.

Normally I would've gotten mad. But with only him, nobody else around, it seemed okay to talk about. By the time we got to the concert, he had the rest of my high school career planned out, up to which colleges I had to apply to. When I expressed doubt, he told me, "I believe in you Kenny."

I still can picture him, hands clutching the steering wheel, eyes focused on the path his headlights cut through the snow covered mountains saying, "I believe in you."

The concert kicked ass. Well, I think it did anyway. We got kicked out in the first ten minutes for being underage. Kyle hadn't realized that he'd taken us to a twenty one and over club. Still, the night wasn't a complete bust. We convinced some college kid to buy us a bottle of Jack Daniels, and we drove out along the highway until we found some wooded exit right outside South Park. We pulled off there, and then we found a dirt path leading halfway up a mountain. We followed it as far as we could go, and then, with the snow capped peak towering over us, we pulled over.

See, we weren't willing to go back early and admit that Kyle had made a mistake. So for the hour or two that the concert had been scheduled to go on, we told stories, talked about the future, and played never have I ever when we got really bored.

"Never have I ever fallen in love," Kyle groaned, sprawled out on the hood of his car.

I glanced down at him from my spot on the roof, "Seriously?"

"Seriously," Kyle replied with a smirk. He looked at me expectantly.

I just shrugged, "Me neither."

"Man, then neither of us can drink!"

I chuckled, "How about both of us drink instead?"

"Sounds perfect."

By the time we were done, the bottle of Jack was half gone. Drunk and dizzy, we climbed back into the car. Kyle twisted the key in the ignition.

"Kenny," Kyle said calmly, twisting the key. Then he twisted it back and jiggled it forward once more, "Shit."

"What?"

He announced, "The engine's dead."

"What?" I blinked, "How can it be dead?"

Kyle frowned at the car; an old junker borrowed from his dad, "I don't know. I mean the thing's ancient, but it should work."

After several failed attempts we realized the truth. We were stranded.

We were also half drunk, so we didn't let it affect us. Kyle called up a tow truck company that said they wouldn't be able to make it for a few hours. He shrugged and suggested we sleep in the backseats. He dug an old boom box out of the trunk, which his dad kept especially for tailgate parties. He pressed a button and the radio sprung to life. Some country singer crooned about her broken heart. That was the only channel it'd pick up.

For a while we left the radio running, remaining sprawled on top of the car and staring at the stars. They were dazzlingly bright, more so even than in our quiet mountain town. We took turns taking shots of JD until half the bottle was gone, and then three quarters. When we'd drank so much sickly sweet whiskey that our stomachs were turning, we clambered from our positions, numb from the cold but heated from the drink. Kyle's family was perpetually prepared. He had two flannel blankets stashed away in the trunk, along with the boom box, a medical kit and a flashlight. We wrapped ourselves in the flannel and huddled together in the backseat, our heads spinning. When I woke up the next morning, Kyle had his arm wrapped around me. I was pressed up against the warmth of his chest, and the blankets were wrapped around the both of us.

The tow truck was waiting expectantly outside. After I woke Kyle, the driver gave us a cheesy smile and said something about 'liberals' and 'homosexuals'. We ignored him, desperate to get home.

That was the first night and day I ever spent wholly with Kyle Broflovski.

I lay back against my pillows. I remember every one since then. Today's going to stand out in my memory for a long time.

Bunching my fingers into my threadbare sheets, I remember his words, _"I think that you need to figure out why talking about this makes you so angry, Kenny."_

Maybe I do. But not tonight. I unclasp the necklace from my throat, setting it beside my bed.

* * *

A/N: And hooray for super quick updates! No? I wasn't going to post this until I got some more reviews for chapter six. I only have like, two. But…I'm an impatient person. So, tada! Chapter seven.


	8. You Can Fight The Fire That's In Your

**Breathe Me**

_Chapter Eight: You Can Fight The Fire That's In Your Head_

By: Jondy Macmillan

A/N: Like, twenty days since I last updated. I'm slowing down! Oh noes. But I just gradumacated, so forgive me.

* * *

"Missed you in class yesterday," Stan tells me, and then he says pointedly, "Kyle too."

He doesn't have me fooled. He's only concerned about precious Kyle.

"I didn't break him," I tell Stan, "Don't worry."

"You better not have," he growls good-naturedly, but I can tell that my comment bothers him more than he's letting on. He wants to know why Kyle skipped school with me, but not him. He wants to know why his invite got lost in the mail.

Silly me, I didn't think to ask.

I zone out for the endless hours of class, waiting impatiently until lunch finally approaches.

Then I march right up to Kyle, who is predictably glued to his super best idiot.

"You suck," I inform him. His mouth gapes open, exposing half chewed pizza to the world.

Neglecting how gross it is, he mumbles out in this adorable confused voice, "Why?"

"Because," I reply simply, even though that's probably not an answer. No way am I telling him that he fucked with my head yesterday, and that I'm pissed about it. Instead I lie through my teeth, "Because I didn't have my history homework this morning, and you were late so I couldn't fucking copy."

Kyle blinks, his expression changing into one of amusement, even with food hanging out of his mouth, "You know, the point of homework is to do it on your own. By yourself? At home?"

"Yeah right Jew. Homework's the only reason we keep you around," Cartman announces, shoving me to the side and plopping down right in between Stan and Kyle. The table sags with his immense weight. Both of my friends manage to look only mildly irked by his intrusion. Stan more so, of course. I'm starting to suspect something's going on with him, but I've got my own problems.

"And remind me why exactly we keep you around?" Kyle snaps back, "I mean, aside from charting your weight in the Guinness Book of World Records?"

"Aye, watch your mouth fag!"

Kyle growls, "Why should I, bitch?"

I just watch, rolling my eyes. Kyle's got a height advantage, but there's no denying Cartman's got the weight to beat people in a fight. No one even tries anymore, except Kyle. Kyle always wins, but most people, including me, put it down to his prior knowledge of all of Cartman's weak spots. Plus the kid's got a tendency to run his mouth like a fucking motor boat, which only distracts people with a lower IQ than everyone's favorite Jew.

"I will break your legs and dump you in the bottom of a river."

"Try it," Kyle counters.

I sigh, "I think you tried that already, fatass. What's the matter? Lacking creativity today?"

Haha, creativity. Like Cartman has any. His presets are yell and threaten to maim. And then if you really push him, chop you up into a chili bowl.

"Shut it Po'Boy."

I grab a roll of his tray and stuff it in my mouth. After I swallow a bite, I manage, "Satisfied?"

"Get your own food. Oh wait, you can't. Your family would starve if you shelled out a dollar."

"Cartman, I swear to god."

"Kenny," Kyle's glaring at me, probably wondering why I got in the middle of his favorite pastime; reaming out the lardass.

"God doesn't listen in on the ghetto. He'll never know you're swearing."

"Good. He obviously doesn't care about obese whales like you, either, so when I cut you it won't actually be a crime."

I just so happen to have a pocket knife in my jeans. I've never used to it to defend myself, but there's a first time for everything.

"Kenny," Kyle inserts again. He's reaching across the table, trying to grab hold of my arm. I dodge him, not wanting him to touch me.

"Micks like you should have been drowned instead of being let off the boat," Cartman sneers, his hateful brown eyes narrowing, "Oh wait. Maybe that's why God keeps smacking you down, Po'Boy."

I'm still reeling from Cartman's comment on the death issue. I hate the death issue. Dying sucks. It's better to forget about it and move on. I can't believe he went that low. Even my family doesn't talk about it.

"Jesus H. Christ, tubby. Doesn't making fun of poor people ever get old?"

Everyone stares in shock at Stan. Stan Marsh, who never says a bad word about anyone. He never interferes in an argument, even a pointless one against Cartman. He believes in letting people fight it out themselves, and personally he's probably school's most likely to hug it out. I mean, he has more squishy gross feelings than a girl. I'm pretty sure my mouth is hanging open unattractively as I gape at him, but since Kyle and Cartman are both mirroring my expression, I don't feel too bad about it.

Cartman naturally recovers first. He has to regain his dignity, after all. I think the entire cafeteria just saw him get bitched out by pansy ass Stan. It kind of makes me feel like cheering.

"What the fuck, hippie? Who asked you? And no, fuck, who gets tired of making fun of anyone?"

Kyle's attention is well and truly away from me now, "Stan? Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," he mutters, shoving his tray away and gathering up his book bag, "I gotta go to the library."

We watch his retreating back as he practically runs out of the cafeteria. He has a nice ass. All toned from sports.

I'm distracted from watching him when Kyle gets up and follows. It bothers me, and I can't figure out why.

"Stan, wait up!"

Stan just walks faster.

Cartman snorts, "I wish Hezbollah would kill all the Jews and get it over with."

Okay. That got my attention, "That is the most politically incorrect thing you've said all day. And I'm pretty sure that's not Hezbollah's aim."

Not that he would know. It would require paying attention in class.

"Fucking should be," he replies, taking a zestful bite of his sandwich.

Some days I can't believe I'm friends with Eric Cartman. Seriously.

* * *

The rest of the day can't pass fast enough. Most of my teachers are assholes. They're constantly on about us talking too loud, or not enough, or not being smart, or being smartasses. I mean, they have comment after fucking comment about how immature we are, and how we need to learn to be better. Are we allowed to be ourselves without having to worry about growing up? Growing apart? Can't we just be kids a little longer?

Probably not. I think they're scared if they let us stay young, we might stay that way forever. But would that really be a bad thing?

True to form, Cartman writes an essay in my English class about how kike fags need to be eliminated from the earth, drum circling hippies should be disemboweled and burned, and white trash should be shot at birth. I listen with mild interest. The funny thing about him, much as I despise him, is that he loves us. If he stopped calling the lot of us discriminatory names, I'd be really fucking worried. He doesn't call people names if he really hates them. He finds a way to get them killed, or somehow exterminated. I mean, this kid tried to commit genocide in seventh grade. He's slightly terrifying. So yeah, the day he stops calling me white trash, or a mick, or child of drunkards, I'll be scared for my life.

Miss Whoever-She-Is, my English teacher, gets predictably mad. Her face turns red as the fake apple she keeps on her desk. I think she might have popped a blood vessel. She sends Cartman to the principal, but I know it won't help. He and the principal are pretty tight. Possibly because he spends a good amount of time in her office every day. I think he fed her some spiel about how he's misunderstood, and basically he's like her golden child.

When the bell rings, I'm half asleep. I was having some dream; I don't remember the details, but there were definitely boobs involved. Double D's, my favorite.

Too bad they always belong to cunts in real life.

I round the corner towards my locker, and that's when I see Stan and Kyle.

Now, normally I'd go up to them, ask them what's good, and then putz around with them until we had no choice but to get our asses to the bus.

This time I don't. Mostly because they're in the midst of an argument so loud that I'm surprised I didn't hear it in my classroom.

"Stan, please. Tell me what the hell your problem is and we'll work it out."

"I don't have a problem!"

"Is it Wendy? Because she's a skank. Fuck her."

"It's not Wendy."

"Would you stop being such a pussy and just tell me already?"

"I'm not being a- goddamnit Kyle!"

Kyle glares at him, and Mr. Super Best Friend glares right back. Hot damn, I've never seen them so angry with each other. I mean, okay, Kyle kind of has a right to be angry because they still haven't resolved the whole drunken masturbation issue to my knowledge. That's got to be an uncomfortable conversation to have, so I don't really blame them. But what's crawled up Stan's ass; I don't know. It's plausible that the masturbation thing got on his bad side too, but this seems like a whole lot more than misguided embarrassment.

But what comes out of Stan's mouth is hella embarrassing too, and I doubt it's solely him who's blushing once he blurts it out. He turns on his heel with a look so black he might as well be a faggy goth again and yells, "Why didn't you tell me you and Kenny were going to ditch yesterday?"

Kyle's flabbergasted.

I'm stumbling back because I now officially want nothing to do with this.

"That's what this is about?" Kyle demands in a low voice.

"What? I can't be fucking concerned that you seem to be getting a new best friend?"

Oh yeah. Backpedaling fast.

Too fast. I bump into someone, softness rubbing up against my chest deliberately. I know that feeling.

When I spin to face my assaulter, I see pink sugar frosted lips and legs that won't stop. Her breasts are spilling out of a champagne colored top that leaves little to the imagination.

"Heidi? Don't scare me like that!"

"Hey, I'm not the one who's walking without looking," she shrugs, making the motion as slow and sinuous as possible. Whore.

"Where were you running off to, McCormick?"

"Work. You know, where people go to make money when they don't prostitute themselves?" I ask pointedly, still full of resentment for the bitch.

"I don't think so," she purses her lips, "Forgot our agreement? You're my slave today."

"Tempting as that doesn't sound, what?"

"Skipping class? Working on the dance committee? Ring a bell?"

Shit. I forgot we agreed to that.

"Heidi, I've got a job."

"As if I care. Tell them you're going to be late. It's only an hour every day for the next two weeks."

"Every day? Even weekends?"

"Yep," she replies brightly, "So how 'bout you go fetch your boyfriend over there and get your skinny ass to the gym, mm'kay?"

She gestures towards Kyle, who's still fighting with Stan over…well, me, I guess.

Awkward.

I'm so not looking forward to breaking that up.

"Giddy up," Heidi pushes me forward, "Or are you scared to break up the gayfest?"

I glare at her, but apparently looks really can't kill. And no way am I telling her I'm not scared, terrified. Maybe just to find out what Kyle's telling Stan about me.

In the end, I don't find out anything. I walk up to them shaking in my sneakers. They're whispering now, rapidly, like they have their own secret language. Must have caught on to the fact that high school is full of eavesdropping gossips.

Lucky me, my voice stays calm, "Hey guys. Um. Don't want to interrupt the Super Best Bitch Fight, but Kyle, Heidi wants us to come play plantation owner with her."

"Dude," Kyle glances at me sharply, "Not now."

"Um. Yes now. No way is Heidi whipping me all on my lonesome, Broflovski."

Stan's glaring at me now, and I'm pretty much putty under his dark, deep blue eyes. I wish my eyes were like that. They never look all stormy and charming. Just blue. I wonder if Kyle likes that whole I-can-strike-you-down-with-lightning-just-using-the-power-of-my-gaze thing.

"Kyle," Stan warns, but I think whatever power his anger held over the redhead has broken.

Kyle just shakes his head and says, "I really can't do this now, Stan. We'll talk later."

Even more awkward. Why am I in the middle of this? Stan's still glaring daggers at me, and much like Stan never intervenes in fights, he never glares at someone for longer than a minute, either. At least, not if your name isn't Kyle Broflovski or Eric Cartman. I'm getting increasingly uncomfortable. Plus I'm missing work for this shit. My boss is going to shoot me in the head, and that's if he's having a slow day.

"Come on, Kenny," Kyle tugs on my arm, and I try to ignore Stan as we walk back down the hallway towards Heidi.

"That looked rough," I tell him in a quiet voice.

"You have no idea. Thanks for saving me."

I might have saved him, but I feel like I just earned myself a death sentence.

* * *

A/N: Woot. Short chapter, but it's a chapter. Thank you guys for all the reviews so far!


	9. Now You Can't Wash Your Hands Of Me

**Breathe Me**

_Chapter Nine: Now You Can't Wash Your Hands Of Me_

By: Jondy Macmillan

* * *

Being Heidi's slave might be the dream of half the male population out our school, but it ain't no picnic. She has us measure the entire fucking gym, because she believes the principal's too much of a halfwit for the blueprints he lent her to be correct. God forbid she doesn't know how much fucking crepe paper to buy.

Decorations are her role for the dance committee, which Wendy Testaburger is heading off. I like Wendy. She's dated Stan on and off for just about all of eternity. She doesn't take bullshit, and she hits like a guy. What else can you want in a girl? Plus she's got legs that just don't stop. Yeah, Wendy's cool.

I just don't appreciate her minion ordering me about like Napoleon Bonaparte Junior. There's something seriously wrong with the girls in South Park. Aside from all being stupid spoiled whores, I think they were all given war strategy play sets instead of Barbie dolls. They know how to twist boys around their pinkie finger and hang them out to dry right after, which doesn't seem like the natural order of things for teenagers of the feminine variety. I mean I've seen all those teen movies, and aren't the girls supposed to be the ones fawning over us?

Not forcing two highly attractive men folk like Kyle and myself to break our backs for the sake of a school dance.

"Well shit," I glance at the cracked screen of my cell phone, "It's been over an hour. I've gotta get to work or my boss is going to kill me."

"Yeah," Heidi yawns from where she's reclining on the bleachers with the newest issue of Cosmo, "Getting fired from the Stop-N-Pump would be tragic."

"Woman," I frown, "Some of us have to make money."

She hardly spares a glance at me, "I offered you alternatives."

I see Kyle look at me out of the corner of his eye, piercing emerald. He wants to know what he means, but fuck if I'm going to tell him.

"I'm out," I say, and that's when Heidi finally decides to hop to her feet and assume her role as dictator of the gym.

"You can't leave," she informs me, flashing a piece of paper in my face, "You have to go pick up the things on this list."

"Heidi," I reply calmly, "I said I'd stay an hour. It's been longer. I have got. To go. To work."

She crosses her arms, and I glare right on back at her. No blackmail is worth this. Didn't I say chicks are too much trouble? This is a prime example, right here. She thinks I'm going to give in, but mama didn't raise no fool.

Well, that's a lie. She raised two, but they're both my siblings.

"Fine," she gives in, "Kyle can take care of the list."

Kyle's head snaps up from where he's been doing calculations on a notepad about how many tables and chairs we can pack in here without creating a fire hazard. He looks scandalized, "You want me to do all this by myself?"

"Well, no," I bite my lip, "But I have to get to work, dude."

Those emerald eyes of his are hypnotizing. I feel like a queer, standing there, staring at them. Unable to break away, unable to even move.

Then I shake myself free. What am I, in Bizarroland or something? Kyle's a dude, and dudes don't stare at other dudes' eyes. I can feel Heidi watching me with interest. Great. Just what she needs. More ammo.

I wish Kyle'd never even given me that think-about-your-sexuality lecture. I'm getting crucified here, in my thoughts, all because Kyle Broflovski decided he needed me to be true to myself. Why is he so desperate to see me come out of the closet anyway?

I know why. Curiosity. Kyle's got more of it than any one human has a right to.

So I do what I'm best at. I ignore it, and I ignore his freaky eyes. My fingers scrape over my collarbone, searching for the necklace he gave me, the one I took off two nights ago.

I'm such a pussy. It's not like I need jewelry to be strong.

I wave goodbye, and walk out the back of the gym. Heidi doesn't even acknowledge my leaving. Kyle on the other hand, runs after me.

"Kenny, dude! Wait up. I wanted to talk to you!"

I turn on my heel, my sneaker grinding into the concrete and gravel beneath the layers of snow, "What's up?"

Wet is creeping up through my pant leg. The snow is deeper than I thought.

I'm staring up at him through blond fringe. I need a haircut, and badly, but things have been kind of distracting lately.

"Look, yesterday, when we talked about…you know…you thinking about why you're confused…I wanted to know if you thought about it?"

"This again?" I growl, "I thought we established that it doesn't fucking matter!"

"Yeah," he crosses his arms, "It doesn't. To you."

I sag against the side of the gym, trying to keep my voice low. God forbid Heidi came out and heard us. I might die of embarrassment and never return, "So it matters to you?"

He blinks, his cheeks abruptly reddening.

What? I'm so confused. Why the hell is he blushing? Did I say something wrong? I don't think so…

"Kyle?"

Kyle shuffles from one foot to another, "Um. Maybe we should talk about something else."

I glare at him, "No fucking way. Speak, dude."

He stares at me, vulnerable now, "About what?"

"Why does whether or not I'm gay affect you?"

"Because…um, you're my friend, and I care about you?"

"That's not supposed to be a question," I tell him slowly.

Kyle backs into the wall behind him, "Um. Yeah."

I take a step forward, quietly mocking his earlier words to me, "Um, yeah isn't an answer."

"Kenny," he moans slightly, "I-can we not do this now?"

"No, I think we have to do this now," I take another step forward, balling my fingers into fists to keep from reaching out to him.

"Look, I just…" Kyle takes a deep breath, and then his expression turns fierce. He always was a fighter, "So the thing is that I kind of maybe possibly…shit. I think _I_ might be into guys, and I guess I thought if you were confused too, it might be nice to have someone to go through it with together."

I'm surprised at how calm his voice is at the end of that sentence. Hell, if I'd been the one saying it I probably would have blended the words together until it sounded like mumbled nonsense.

He covers his eyes, and then peeks out through his fingers, "Dude. Say something. Do you hate me?"

"What? Why would I hate you?"

"You kind of flipped a shit when I accused you of being gay. You're either closeted or a total homophobe," he says clearly. I ignore his jibe at me being 'closeted' and shake my head.

"Kyle, even if you're gay, I could never hate you."

"Good," he drops his hands to his side, "And I didn't say I'm definitely gay. I said I think I'm gay."

"See, it gets kind of awkward to talk about, doesn't it?" I ask pointedly, grinning at him. Inside my mind is reeling. He thinks he's gay. I wonder why he thinks that. Does he have a crush on somebody male? Oh god. Is it Stan? Did seeing Stan masturbate to him turn him? Can you turn somebody gay?

I think of them arguing in the hallway earlier today, and the way Stan looked when he asked about us skipping school together. Yeah. I could see that. Stan Marsh and Kyle Broflovski, super best couple.

They'd be cute, I guess.

Kyle's staring at me, like I have all the answers to his problems. I guess he thinks I do. He wants me to be gay so he doesn't have to go it alone, and that makes sense. It must be kind of terrifying for him. He's smart, and reasonably popular, and has this perfect life. Liking guys would pretty much throw a wrench into all his plans.

It would still end up perfect though. Stan's so obviously suppressing feelings for him. I doubt his mom would be too upset over his orientation, at that; she is Mrs. Activist Extraordinaire Broflovski.

I try to think of what to tell him. Life would be so much easier if they made guidebooks that answered questions like these.

Kyle beats me to the punch.

"Yeah. Sorry for pressuring you earlier," he leans back against the wall, more casual now that I'm not pushing him for anything.

"Um. It's okay," I'm still searching for the words to comfort him, to enable him into being back in control of his life. That's what good friends do, right?

"Kenny?"

"Yeah?"

Now he's looking at me with those impossibly green eyes, "Have you ever liked anybody? That way, I mean?"

"Like a guy?"

He frowns, "No. Anybody. Guy, girl…whoever."

"I've had a few crushes," I say, thinking of girls with mermaid hair and cat eyes. I think of girls with bodies shaped like starlets, and girls who shyly told me they thought I was cute. I can't remember if I ever really liked any of them, or if I just liked the attention they gave me. It's the eternal dilemma for a guy like me.

"I don't mean like that," he says dismissively, "I mean…like…have you ever met someone who made you feel…right?"

"Right?" I echo.

"Yeah. Like…like rotting here in South Park would be okay?"

I think about it. That would be amazing. I wonder where I could meet a person who would make me willing to stay in this hick town.

"No. I've never met anyone like that," I conclude, "Which you know already. Remember Never Have I Ever?"

Kyle's face falls slightly, "Oh. I thought maybe you'd…changed your mind."

I work up my resolve and say, "Kyle?"

"Yeah?"

"Do you like Stan?"

"What do you mean?" his head snaps up, his cheeks reddening again.

"I think you know."

"Um. No."  
"No, you don't like him?"

"No, I have no idea what you're insinuating," he snaps, embarrassed.

"Does Stan make you feel like it would be okay to live here forever?"

"I-" his voice cuts off, "I don't think so. I don't know. I haven't really thought about it."

"That's kind of weird."

"Why?" Kyle asks, peering at me through those red eyelashes. He really is kind of gorgeous. I gulp.

I rake a hand through my hair, nervous for reasons I can't identify, "Just that you saw him wankin' it to you, and you're questioning your sexuality, but you didn't even connect the two?"

"It never came up."

"Like I said; weird."

"Kenny," he says, a warning in his tone.

I don't care. All the questions brimming at the back of my mind are starting to pour out of my mouth like word vomit. Maybe it's because I've never had anyone to talk to about this kind of thing before. Maybe because Kyle feels safe.

"Would you fuck Stan?"

"Kenny!" he shouts in protest, eyes wide.

I grin, "You've at least thought of that, right?"

"I haven't!" he exclaims, but his face is burning. He's lying to me.

"Oh," I say, like I accept his answer, and then ask, "Would you fuck me?"

His mouth gapes open. I laugh.

Kyle reaches out a hand, to swipe at me, I think, yelping, "You fag. You want me to fuck you?"

I think him fucking me is the last thing on my mind. Fucking me up, maybe.

"As if, Broflovski," I taunt him, "I'm the best lay in town, haven't you heard?"

"Gross, Kenny," Kyle stops trying to take a swing at me and asks, "Have you even been laid?"

Well, now there's a question I don't like to think about. I think I scare him with my sudden intensity. I'm staring into his eyes, wondering if I should answer for real, or give him the kiss off like I do to everyone else.

I decide, in a rare moment of stupidity, to tell the truth, "Once or twice."

"Girls, right?"

"Of course, girls," I snort, "I don't even really know how exactly you go about that type of thing with a dude. Seems complicated."

Kyle gives me an odd smile, green eyes shining, "Not as much as you'd imagine."

"How'd you know?"

"Googled it," he grins.

I laugh, "You are such a fag."

"I think we both are," he says, placing a hand on my shoulder, "I have to get back inside. Heidi's is waiting for me to run her errands like a little bitch."

Oh. I forgot about that.

Maybe he's right. I haven't thought this through. Kyle's pressing me for answers for things that I don't even want to know myself, and while I understand why now, it's still strange. Does he really need company on the magical gaystravaganza he might or might not take part in?

"Kyle?" I say, my voice slightly strangled. I'm not used to hearing my voice like that, husky and hitched. I don't know why it sounds that way, although subconsciously I must know. I have to. I can't think of any other explanation for what came next.

I reach forward, taking hold of the collar of his jacket. He stumbles slightly, falling into me, so that I have to balance him with my arms. I see him looking up at me, not afraid, questioning.

He trusts me.

So what do I do?

I press my lips to his.

It's over in seconds, and I stumble back, one thought in my mind. I just kissed Kyle Broflovski.

He's staring at me with wide eyes. His fingers fly to his lips, a horrified expression on his face, "Dude, what the hell was that?"

"Uh…I don't know," I say, not sounding nearly as cool as I usually like to after I kiss someone, "I…uh…consider it an experiment."

"That was one fucked up experiment," Kyle mutters. His touches his lips again. Now he's really trying to get rid of the taste of me.

"I-" I stutter, "I've got to go to work. Um. Bye."

"Kenny!" he shouts after me, but I'm already running as fast as my legs will carry me. There's only one thought in my head. I fucked up, badly.

* * *

A/N: I hate this chapter. It was impossible. It took forever to get out, and it totally didn't turn out the way I wanted it to. Oh well. Please review.


	10. This Is Gonna Bring Me To My Knees

**Breathe Me**

_Chapter Ten: This Is Gonna Bring Me To My Knees _

By: Jondy Macmillan

A/N: Ahem. Hi. It's been a while. I know guys; I kind of ran out of steam there. I fail at life. Part of it springs from the fact that I love k squared, but I find style infinitely more interesting, especially since there's such a large amount of Kyle/Kenny being posted now. Thank you for all your lovely reviews; they're endless inspiration, and the kick in the butt that I needed to get posting!

* * *

If they gave out awards for the world's biggest coward, I'm pretty sure I'd take the title. Sure, I'm being dramatic; I doubt I'm the first boy who ever ran away after a kiss. I don't exactly know how many boys kissed-and-ran from other boys, but hey, again, I doubt I'm the first intrepid explorer in the field.

I'm sitting in my living room, which smells vaguely of pinewood construction dust and stale beer. It's better than the old eau de dog shit, at any rate. My mom started watching Martha Stewart on the tiny TV at her job a while back, and ever since she's been on a cleanliness kick. We can't afford much, mind you, but she springs for a bottle of Febreeze here and there. Plus she's been trying to entice my dad into some DIY projects, which accounts for the pinewood; it's all scrap he filched from other people's dumpsters.

Anyway, I'm watching TV with Kevin. He spends entirely too much time at home, and I hope when I go to college I don't decide that bonding with the 'rents is a fun and interesting way to pass the day. The TV's black and white; we bought it for ten cents at a garage sale back when I was young and it still hadn't achieved antique status. I've been researching how much we could hock it for on Ebay. Sadly, it's not enough to get a Plasma.

I could probably afford to buy one with what I've saved up, but I'm not risking my college fund just so I can watch Oprah. Maybe if we had HBO or Showtime, I'd get to thinkin' 'bout it. At least those shows have nudity.

Kevin's eyes are trained on the ol' boob tube, but I'm lost in my own little world.

I kissed Kyle. I don't know why I did that.

I mean, I guess I do. Even I didn't buy my girls-suck-ass excuse after the first year or so. Maybe that's why Kyle's pressuring me to figure out my sexuality burned me down to the core.

Good job, Broflovski; I congratulate him in my head. Now he's forced me to figure out how I feel.

And I feel…something. I'm not sure what it is, is all.

Do I like guys? Really? How could I have missed it for so long? Girls fail at life, okay, but I still find them attractive. They're just…annoying. And, I suppose I could have tried a little harder to get laid; just because girls don't take too well to my home doesn't mean we couldn't go to theirs. It's not an ideal situation, but I could have made it work. There are cars and parks and really, an infinite amount of places to bone someone if you've got the willpower and that someone is slutty enough.

Problem is, I never thought about that alternative. I never thought about any alternative other than givin' up on chicks.

It's not like I was eyeing guys in the showers after gym class or anything.

I feel Kevin's body shift a moment before the throbbing pain in the back of my head appears. Turning to him while clutching my head, I ask in an incredulous voice, "What was that for, asshole?"

"You was bein' stupid," he shrugs, "Now you're not. Problem solved."

"How was I bein' stupid?" I demand.

"You was thinkin'," Kevin replies, like anyone who thinks anything, ever, who should be shot.

"Maybe you should try it sometime," I retort gruffly. Kevin just crosses his arms and returns to staring at his show.

Whatever. He might be right. I'm thinking too much about it. Obviously, I don't like guys. This thing with Kyle was a one off. Now I just have to figure out a way to apologize for it and forget it ever happened.

I just don't know if there's any way to do that without sounding like an asshole.

* * *

People grow up. They grow out of phases we all thought would last forever, and they grow into them too. The goth kids aren't goth anymore; well, most of them. The cheerleaders aren't all still cheerleaders. Tweek Tweak can hold a conversation without twitching. Butters Stotch grew some balls. Patty Nelson got kind of fat. And Kyle isn't that awkward little kid anymore.

On the other hand, some people never grow out of phases. Like how Cartman's still an asshole, and I'm still the poorest kid in town. Those aren't even phases, I guess. They're more like stigmas, character flaws we're stuck with for the rest of our life. Okay, so maybe I could eventually maybe not be poor. But I doubt Cartman's never going to not be a total d-bag, so there.

Point I'm trying to make is that I spend most of the night trying to predict Kyle's reaction the next morning. I don't have much to go on; it's not like he tried to call me. He couldn't even if he tried; the last cell phone I tried to pay for ended up accidentally falling in dad's bathtub distillery, the only DIY project that he's actually enthusiastic about. And we haven't had a house phone since that time mom tried to through it at Kevin's head. So yeah, unless he wanted to walk on the bad side of the tracks, Kyle didn't have many options there. Still, assuming he had wanted to find me, he would have discovered a way. He's a smart kid.

Since he didn't attempt a foray into the ghetto, I'm assuming he doesn't much want to see me. That, or he's trying to give me time. Both are very Kyle-like reactions. He doesn't take well to change; having been his friend for over seventeen years, I know this well.

He also tries really hard to be considerate, even though he's got a selfish personality. It's fun to watch, usually; his inner good, polite Jew trying to overcome his inner Crusader. What I mean by that is that Kyle likes morals; he likes letting everyone have their own beliefs. If anything challenges those beliefs, he'll stomp right over the person in question and everything they stand for in an attempt to defend 'em to the death. It doesn't matter how many casualties there are. He's a lot like his mom that way. He might kill me if I ever said that out loud, too.

Anyway, being nice or being freaked out would be Kyle's reactions for sure…if we were still nine years old. It occurs to me over the course of the longest night ever that I don't actually know that much about the seventeen year old version of my friend. I mean, I know the basics; his favorite color, the music he likes to listen to in the car, and the fact that he wants to be an architect. But even though he's a close friend, I'm not his super best butt buddy like Stan. He doesn't tell me everything. I can't guess his next move; I can only make assumptions based off what I know, and most of what I know seems to be established form a long, long time ago. He hasn't really told me anything new about himself in years, it feels like. I hate to admit it, but most of our conversations have been about me. My dreams, my desires, and my complaints. He's helped me study for school, and kept me company at work, and convinced me to go to college, but I haven't really returned the favor. The only thing I've done to date is listen to him go on about Stan's masturbation adventure.

In an ideal world, I could go talk to Stan about this. He's a cool guy, he'd understand. Except…when the subject matter is Kyle, I'm not entirely sure that's true. Stan tends to lose his head when it comes to a certain redhead, if the aforementioned masturbation disaster is any indication. I don't know if that was a one off or if there really is something brewing in his thick skull, but I'm sure as hell not going to ask.

That's when it hits me for certain that there's the slightest possibility Stan's drunken rub and tug might spring from a deeper emotion. God, imagine if Stan was competition.

Wait, I didn't mean that. There wouldn't be a competition even if Stan was interested for real in Kyle, which he's not, because that's gay, but either way, I'm not even in the running. He can have Kyle, for all I care. The two of them can ass fuck all night if Kyle decides to switch teams.

Thinking is driving me insane. Life was so much easier back when I just didn't give a damn.

Like, I don't know, a week ago.

Outside my grubby window, birds start chirping. I want to take a bazooka and shoot them all out of their trees, but that won't work. We don't have any bloody trees outside my house. They're living in the rafters and driving me mad.

I need to get this whole thing sorted. But there's nothing to even sort. I just have to talk to Kyle because…for the first time, I let myself say the words that have been floating in my mind. They've been drifting, like viscous oil on top of water, those three little words.

So I say them out loud, "I'm not gay."

They ricochet dully off my walls, and even after the echo's gone, I can still hear them, a steady chant in my mind.

* * *

"Kyle!" I scream down the hall, having spotted his brilliant red hair after third period, "Kyle!"

He throws a furtive glance my way and then disappears into the sea of students.

"That bastard."

After all the deliberation I put into thinking about him last night, and more so, NOT thinking about him, he has the nerve to just disappear? Yeah, not happening.

I get about five steps before I'm tackled into a locker by my least favorite person in the world, "Po'Boy!"

Okay, it's prob'ly not fair to call him my 'least favorite person'. That title gets spread pretty thin in my mind, where teachers, cheerleaders, and my boss all fall into the category of 'incarnations of Satan'. Hell, that's not even fair to Satan. He's a pretty nice guy. Throws a weak party, but hey. He's cool.

Let's put it this way. Cartman's like a puppy, if a puppy weighed five gazillion pounds. I'm serious. Think about it; he spends all his time sleepin', eatin', and barkin'. There's the little matter of how puppies like to play fetch and Cartman won't even get up to answer the door, but otherwise, it's a spot on comparison.

"What?" I ask warily, because puppy or not, Cartman's a user. For the most part, he likes to snap at people and ask like a general manipulative douche, but on rare occasion, he can be sort of dangerous.

"Kenneh," his tone softens, turns wheedling, "You're smart and stuff, right?"

"Um. No."

"Don't lie to me if you value your nuts," he warns.

"Do you need to copy my homework?"

"Kenneh. Why would I need to copy your homework? I am a genius. You are poor. Does that sound logical to you?" Cartman asks.

"You want to copy my homework," I state again.

He blinks, "Don't tell anyone. It will ruin my reputation."

"Yeah. Right," I roll my eyes. Eric Cartman is quite possibly one of the smartest kids at our school; animal comparisons aside. He's jut…well, incredibly lazy. More so than me, in fact.

Being brought up with the idea that he's the 'most special little boy in the world' hasn't done him any favors.

His mom's like the worst enabler, ever.

Anyway, by the time Cartman's done finagling my homework from my hands, there's only minutes left til class. Kyle's long gone.

I sigh. Somehow, I'd imagined this going better.

I sit through the rest of my classes and lunch, where Stan's moping because everybody's favorite Jew has vanished into thin air, and Cartman's gloating because he reigns victorious as teacher's pet, despite stealing my answers. I'm hanging on a moment, a thread, a breath, just waiting to see if Kyle will man up and let me know how this all is going to go down. I don't know if any other guy has been more firmly entrenched in my thoughts.

"Kenny," Stan says, his depression radiating across the table towards me, "Do you think Kyle's going to show up to lunch at all?"

"God, fag. Think you can live for one second without your gay-ass Siamese twin?" Cartman interjects. I don't even get the chance to open my mouth, "Kenneh's not your jewrat's fucking secretary. If there's any justice in this world, Kahl's gone to hang himself in the library."

"Don't you dare say that!" Stan hisses, "Fucking fatass!"

"Did you need him for something?" I ask. It's a stupid question, because Stan and Kyle need each other to fucking breathe, but as the resident hick I'm supposed to sound like an idiot. I'm okay with it. Somebody's got to make all the other kids feel smarter.

Stan groans, burying his face in his arms so that all I can see is his eyes, staring straight at the vending machine in the corner of the cafeteria.

"He's been acting so weird. I wanted to tell him something, but he's barely spoken to me since yesterday. I don't know what's going on," his gaze falls on me, "Did something happen with Heidi?"

"Um," I can tell I'm blushing, "No. Not really. She's still in the running for becoming America's Biggest Bitch, if that's what you're asking."

No way am I telling him about my little mistake, or the fact that now I have to hunt Kyle down and actually talk about it. I hate talking about things. All that touchy feely emotional shit is chick territory.

Plus, how do you even talk about a kiss and run thing? It's like a hit and run, with less carnage. Or possibly more, depending on how you look at it. I'm beginning to think my plan is seriously flawed.

"Oh," Stan's dejected, and there's not much I can do 'bout it.

Except maybe dig at his pain.

"So does this thing you want to tell him have anything to do with a certain bathroom incident at a party?"

Stan turns a color never before seen in nature, and I'm not sure if it's because he's embarrassed or because he's choking on his Sloppy Joe. Cartman starts hitting him hard on the back, and chunks of food fly out of his mouth, hitting Butters Stotch in the head.

"Hey fellas! Stop throwin' food!" he snaps before returning to his complicated world of apples and butterflies and whatever the hell else goes on in that little blond head of his.

"I thought we agreed never to talk about that!" Stan squeaks, finally recovering oxygen.

"What's the bathroom incident, guys?" Cartman queries.

"We did, but you know, I just wanted to know if it was pertinent."

"Kenny- don't. Just don't."

"Loosen up, Stan."

"Guys," Cartman whines, "What's the bathroom incident."

"Stan puked," I supply a lie with ease.

"So? Stan always pukes," Cartman counters, "How much do you value your nuts, Kenneh?"

"Shut up."

"Not very much I see."

"Cartman, I'm serious," I glare at him, "Why don't you go find Wendy? I heard the slut hasn't talked to you since the party."

His face darkens, "Whatever. She's a ho."

"Right," I glance at Stan, but he's locked up so tight it would take the jaws of life to get him to tell me what's on his mind.

The root of the problem's Kyle. Isn't it always? More and more I'm thinking I wasn't off base when I said Stan might be competition.

Were there a competition to be had.

Which there isn't.

Fuck. I'm ending this, now.

I stand up, impervious to Stan and Cartman's stares. I've got a Jew to track down.

* * *

A/N: Sigh. This is so not turning out right...On a different note-Kay, so I have a question. I was at the fair tonight (I almost died on the frickin' Ring of Fire, and my uncle and my cousin thought it was hilarious. So did the cute operator, who stopped us upside down like, a thousand times just to hear me scream bloody murder and then afterwards told me it was just for me. I'm scared of heights.) and I saw this kid. He was probably six, if not younger. HE HAD A KENNY HAT. It was all orange, and then on the very front was the little opening of a hood drawn on with Kenny's eyes. Best hat ever. I wanted this baseball cap like no other. Unfortunately, I couldn't persuade my eleven year old cousin to go ask the kid where he got it, and I felt kind of awkward, being twenty three going up to ask the kid where he got it. In retrospect, I should have manned up and asked, because OMGTHEHAT! So, my question is- has anyone seen one of these hats anywhere? Stores, online, whatever? I did a google search and got nothing. I MUST HAVE IT!!!


	11. Never Trust A Soul

**Breathe Me**

_Chapter Eleven: Never Trust A Soul_

By: Jondy Macmillan

A/N: Real short chapter! I'd forgotten I had a destination for this thing, which explains my lack of updates. Last time I posted, I was thinking what I had mapped out sucked, but turns out on second examination I kind of like it. Hopefully you guys will too. I want to thank everyone who reviewed and encouraged me to continue on trekking! I'm still having some trouble pinning down the monologue with the excitedangryaccentedcrap English to the normal, actually got schooled English, so sorry if the chapter has some flow issues. Which it definitely does.

* * *

Like with all my plans, this one goes horribly awry.

Better explain that. Planning never works out for me. No matter how many times I map one out, five seconds in the things get shot to hell, leaving me to whine and bitch over the nine different ways life is trying to screw me over.

Like this one time, I decided to play chicken on the railroad tracks at my Gran's down South. They span over this big ass pond, and it wasn't all frozen like Stark's. No, you could swim in this thing. So I'm standing on the tracks with Kevin, and we hear the rumble of the train in the distance. Kev's teasin' me, daring me to lose my cool and jump, to save myself.

I plan on holdin' out for the very last second, 'cause hey, Kevin doesn't come back to life, man.

I don't plan on dyin' and missing out on Gran's jambalaya.

'Course that's exactly what happens. The headlight of the train shining down on us, Kevin jumps. I'm victorious, and on my toes, ready to greet the water. Instead my shoelace gets caught and I end up splat.

I don't come back until the trip's over. No jambalaya for me. My folks probably won't scrape up the cash to go back down there 'til I'm roughly eighty.

Figures.

So yeah, this plan doesn't end up with my body plastered on the grill of a train bound for Mississippi, but it still don't go quite right. Tracking down Kyle in a school as big as Park County Regional is impossible, improbably, and not happening with the limited amount of time I have before classes. I guess it's an unrealistic idea from the start. I mean, okay, the school is actually tiny compared to high schools in say, Boulder or Denver, but the thing had to be built by Dadelus or some shit. It's a labyrinth.

Seriously, who knew we had a fucking music room, full of instruments and shit? I always thought that hideous wailing noise that came from it was just some bulimic chick having a full on nervous meltdown every day after her lunchtime puke-a-thon. Chicks are weird like that; what with the doing things, and the regretting things.

Wait.

Well, shit, just call me a hypocrite.

I sit through hours upon hours of academic hell, waiting for my chance to track down the redhead that's been on my mind. I practically bolt from remedial math, only to be stopped in the hallway by my teacher. He's a barrel-chested guy with this old school mustache, like the villain in a cowboy movie. The look in his beady little eyes screams howdy there pardner, I got my sharp-shootin' trigger finger aimed right at you.

Lucky me.

"McCormick, where are you running off to so fast?"

"Er-home?" I guess, because teachers are shifty bastards, and I never really know when they're trying to give me a pop quiz in the middle of a conversation. Catch me off guard.

"I don't think so," he says, and by god, he looks happy. Like I'm a canary and he's a frickin' house cat.

Oh fucking well, can't win 'em all.

"Where'm I s'posed to be?" I demand, laying on the accent extra thick because I know jerks like Mr-I-Teach-Math better than the back of my hand. He thinks I'm dumb, and acting any smarter than he thinks I am will just land me in a shitload of trouble.

Math-bitch smirks and drawls, "I think detention might be the destination you're looking for."

Okay, unexpected. Detention?

What the fuck?

I didn't do anything.

This time.

He must see my eyes widen in outrage or somethin', 'cause he says, "Your test scores have been suspiciously high of late. I don't appreciate cheaters, McCormick."

"I didn't cheat!" I burst, because hell, I _didn't_.

"You've come dangerously close to failing your classes for over three years. The only way someone like you," his eyes narrow hatefully, and maybe he's a super-villain from those old westerns, 'cause no regular old Joe criminal in those flicks looks quite so scary, "Could pass my class is by cheating."

Innit it like, illegal for teachers to say something so soul-crushing to their students? It has to be. It has to be. I earned those fucking grades. I studied my ass off, 'cause Kyle made me, 'cause I want to go to college and get out of this damned hick town.

"Gee," I spit, "Maybe I studied-" I'm this close to tacking on 'a-hole' to the end of that sentence, but I'm certain that's not gonna win me any points at all.

He starts in on the most thorough reaming I've ever had the pleasure of experiencing, telling me that a less-than-mediocre mush-for-brains ghetto kid ain't never studied enough to raise their grades much as I have, and I'm seeing red. My fist is clenching and unclenching and clenching again, and then…

…I'm saved.

Hallelujah, lord have mercy.

The scumbag's hand is sitting pretty on my shoulder, which isn't really helping the whole wanna-tear-his-face-off impulse I'm having, and then there's another hand on top of it. Gently removing it.

"Kenny studied real hard, sir," an earnest voice breaks in, "I've been tutoring him."

"Broflovski," the teacher murmurs, startled.

"Honest," Kyle adds, and 'cause he's a total teacher's pet, the douche backs down in five seconds flat. I notice he doesn't give me anything resembling an apology before he scurries away.

"Thanks dude," I say, and my cheeks are flushing red as a fire engine. Fuck being Irish. It doesn't let you get away with anything. Ever.

Then again, the same genes also keep me from being embarrassed in most situations, ones that don't involve apologizing for kissing another guy.

"Any time," Kyle says, and maybe he avoids my eyes a little, but it's enough that he's standing in front of me instead of bolting like Bambi.

"I wanted to talk to you."

"I'd guessed that," he replies, all dry-like.

"That kiss thing was a mistake."

I'm not sure if that's true. I'm not real sure of anything, actually.

But for now, it has to be true. I'm not ready for it not to be. Its coward's logic, but it's all I've got.

Kyle's green eyes widen, and he murmurs, "Are you positive?"

"Sure as shit," I reply flatly. I don't want to leave any room for error here.

"Kenny, I thought-" he stops, rethinking whatever it is he's about to say, "I guess I was worried you weren't going to talk to me again after that."

It doesn't sound quite like what he'd been meaning to say, but I'm not going to press him. I'm not sure I even want to know.

"Ain't no such thing ever going down," I shake my head, grinning like a maniac because things between Kyle and I might just be turning out right, kind of, "Try to get rid of me and see what happens, Broflovski."

He laughs, and I keep smiling, and we're the dumbest fucks in the entire universe.

'Cause I catch a glimpse of us in the mirror hanging in Wendy Testaburger's open locker and neither of us really looks happy at all.

* * *

A/N: Again, sorry for the issues with the flow. I wanted to post something, but I'm hoping if I go back and look at this thing say, next week, maybe I'll be able to edit this with a clearer eye. This is also a super-short chapter, because hey, it's a lil' bit o'filling for the action next chappie. Please review!


	12. As I'm Pissing On Their Perfect Front

**Breathe Me**

_Chapter Twelve: As I'm Pissing On Their Perfect Front Lawns_

By: Jondy Macmillan

* * *

Girls. I love girls. Softness and curves and legs. Toes painted like rainbows and eyelashes thick and clumpy from mascara. Lips slathered in sticky gloss that might look sweet as candy apple coating, but tastes a lot like shampoo-y gunk.

Yeah, alright, I never claimed to understand girls. Just like them. Kind of. On a good day.

Lola's voice is shrill in my ear as she prattles on about how amazing the dance is going to be, kind of like a revival of the good ol' days when dancing was the closest you could get to making love without breaking any abstinence vows. It's going to be that good, she says.

I'm hanging decorations that catch the light and reflect it back in my eyes; metallic, dangling hoosawhatsits and glittered thingamabobs. Kyle's down by the bleachers, getting his ass handed to him on a platter by Heidi. The closer we get to crunch time, the more she acts like she's entering a kid in a Junior Miss pageant and we're making her daughter look like a whore. The gym's never good enough, beautiful enough, prepared enough.

Kyle is kind of hot when he looks all guilty and ashamed like that.

No.

I never said that.

Tonight's the dance. It's Valentine's Day. Day o'love. Day o'Kenny kickin' himself for being such a complete and total fuck up. If I lie to myself, if I pray and I lie and wish like hell, then I can almost stop beating myself up for telling Kyle the kiss was a mistake. Because it was, really. I can keep busy, thinking about girls and all the reasons I love them, want them, need them.

Funny how those reasons keep turnin' to shit I can't even force myself to believe.

This gay thing, this looking in a mirror and not recognizing that dude staring back at me thing; oh yeah, it's getting old.

I wonder how Kyle managed to figure out he might be gay, all on his own. I'm thinking entering myself into group therapy is the next step for me, because there's no way I'm going to be able to reach a firm conclusion about anything without a big safety net.

Kyle's attractive, sure, I've said it a thousand times 'til now. Just because he's kind of a pretty dude doesn't mean anything about me.

Hell, if anything it means he's the fag.

Which he is, so maybe that's not the insult I'm looking for.

He's just not a fag for me. And I'm not for him. Because I don't like guys that way. At all. Never have. Stupid thoughts about Kyle mean nothing. Girls do it all the time; comment on how hot other chicks look.

There's nothing weird about it.

Girls even kiss each other.

When they're drunk.

There's a song about it and everything, so it's got to be normal. I caught Butters singing the damned thing around homeroom yesterday.

Who even knows who they actually are, anyway? Who knows how they actually feel? Understanding feelings is impossible. Sometimes it seems like my emotions are hidden somewhere in this trench, this fucking abyss inside my heart, and every once in awhile a fissure lets out this bubble of something, of emotion that feels more like regurgitation than anything resembling a feeling, and I'm supposed to run my life based off of that? Deep sea eruptions? No chance.

So I think I'm gonna forget about that whole queer inner-debate and keep my eye on the prize. At least until I can get in to see a psychiatrist, or you know, afford one. I'm gonna dance tonight, and the only feelings I'm going to experience are when I cop a feel off Lola's breasts. She's cordially accepted being my date, although we had to have a little chat about how I would no-way-no-how be picking her up or wearing any article of clothing with a single fucking hole in it.

I'd drop her, but man, it took me the last two weeks to get her to even agree to go with me. Before that I was working on Mandy, this cheerleader with a tight little ass, but she has some unfathomable loyalty to Heidi, and I decided not to even go there.

I hear Stan come in the gym, and against my will, I glance towards Kyle. He's smiling.

Things between Kyle and I have felt weird. Wrong. So I've done what I do best, and barreled right over anything that could be misconstrued as inviting awkward conversation with porno jokes. I've been spending more time with Cartman, although I'm pretty sure all that's doing is inviting bad karma onto my doorstep. He wants to start a franchise out of forcing fourteen year old Filipino boys into shining shoes or somethin' equally as fucked up, and I'm just worried one day he's gonna move himself right on to forming a prostitution ring. His mother's a gigantic slut, and he's inherited the panache for pimpin'. All he'd be doing is continuing the family business.

Cartman's a little scary.

I heard he was trying to score Wendy into going to the dance with him, and I kind of wonder how that's working out for him. Scary or not, Cartman deserves to be happy. Maybe because that's the only way to stop him from committing genocide, but really, I think Wendy would be good for him. She's got this whole dominatrix vibe thing going, and someone needs to control the fatass. At whatever cost.

"Kenny, you're not even listening to me," Lola admonishes, brushing some stringy metallic stuff hanging off the…well, thing, I'm trying to tie up to the ceiling. We're both balanced on a ladder, which isn't my favorite place in the world to be, 'cause I've died falling off one or two. You'd think I'd get this whole feeling of invincibility, being able to die and come back to life, but really all it leaves me with is this feeling of 'not again'.

Lola's been babbling this whole time, and handing me tape and string when I ask for it. When I look back at her I see warm brown eyes and a half-smile.

Oh, and breasts.

So maybe I'm a little asexual, or something, because Lola's boobs are pretty nice, closer to a C cup than a B, and they're there and they're real (I think), but I'm just not as into it as I should be. I'm kind of wondering what it would be like to see another guy naked, to see if I get turned on by a dick, but the idea sounds preposterous even in my head, so I shake it off.

Kevin had it right when he told me to stop thinking.

I focus on taping and tying and fixing the gym up, trying to be zen and blank my mind.

It's hard to do that when Stan and Kyle insist on being loud. Like, really loud. Heidi's walked out for a minute, probably to fix her hair and make sure she looks pageant worthy, so the two super best fags are making fun of how dumb the gym's beginning to look, what with the streamers and the crepe and the metallic, glittery, sparkly stuff everywhere. No self respecting guy worth his balls is going to feel comfortable walking in here, date or no, and Kyle and I are both mighty ashamed we participated in this total castration of the gym.

But Kyle can laugh about it with Stan, and I can't. I can't because Lola's blocking my way, jabbering about the corsage I need to get her, because every Valentine's Day dress requires a corsage. I can even pin it real close to her breasts, she says, but I'm so not focused there because I'm watching Kyle.

At first it's just a twinge when I watch Stan throw his arm around Kyle's shoulders. They're laughing, and talking about; hell, I don't even know what super best friends talk about. I've never had the privilege of having one myself.

Then Stan leans a little closer, his lips brushing against Kyle's ear. Kyle's cheeks turn as red as his hair for a second, but that's all it takes.

It hits me in the gut, twisting my stomach into knots that burn, and all I want to do is make the flames in my chest burn away. It feels like the tissue of my heart is scarring where I stand.

I'm thinking about Stan in the bathroom of that party over break, the one where he touched himself and thought of Kyle. I teased him about it and joked about it, and maybe it made me uncomfortable a little so I slipped all thoughts of it to the back of my mind. I hid it from myself.

Now I've got this image in my head, of Stan screaming and cumming and Kyle watching, and it pisses me off. I want to yell at Stan to get his fuckin' hands off Kyle, because there is no way in hell the Jew'd ever like a freak like him.

He can't.

I'm pretty sure that's when I start to realize I'm the freak.

The gay, twisted freak.

Girls might kiss other girls, but jealousy like this only springs from one thing.

No therapist is ever gonna be able to take care of my issues. I've been dancing around them for weeks. I'm been doing a fuckin' samba.

_"Are you gay?"_

Kyle had to ask. That one innocent question that I should have just laughed off. I should have said, fuck no, and gotten over it. Pronto.

_"It wouldn't be the end of the world. If you don't like girls, I mean."_

Yeah, it would. I t really would.

It is.

Lola's still talking, but I'm not even here anymore. It's not like I've had some rabid, out of the blue revelation. It's more like everything that hasn't added up, or maybe has added up but I've refused to accept is crashing down on me. I'm drowning in a tidal wave. Maybe I shouldn't have been so dismissive of my emotions before. Maybe they really do hold some power.

'Cause right now I'm kind of forgetting to breathe.

What's that they say about denial?

Once you can't cling to it anymore, reality's a bitch.

* * *

A/N: And yet another short chapter. I just fail today. Epic fail. Please review anyway!


	13. Blow A Kiss That Leaves Me Gasping

**Breathe Me**

_Chapter Thirteen: Blow A Kiss That Leaves Me Gasping_

By: Jondy Macmillan

* * *

I might have driven Kyle straight into Stan's arms. For some unfathomable reason, that's the only thought in my head as I throw myself down onto my moth eaten mattress. I'm supposed to be getting ready for the dance, to whisk Lola off her pretty little feet. Yet all I can think about is Kyle and Stan.

I don't even know why it fucking matters; if Stan's gay and he likes Kyle, more power to 'im. Oh god, that's such a big lie I can't even begin to convince myself to believe it.

It matters. _Kyle _matters.

This gay thing has my head twisted all around, and I can't figure out which way is up. Before it was just a topic. A string of words that made me feel off my game, like maybe they were part of a label I just hadn't grown into yet. I had time to deal with them, some other day. I was allowed to procrastinate.

What I witnessed in the gym earlier today proves that I feel something towards Kyle. Something more than friendship and laughter and childhood memories.

I don't know what it is. It's growing clearer at the edges of my mind, but hell, I never was the brightest kid. Even if my gut knows, my brain just wants to ignore the whole damned debacle. I want to go to a dance with a hot girl and pretend to be normal for five minutes.

So that's what I do. I put on my cleanest, least ripped clothes. I doubt Lola's going to approve of them either way, but at least they meet our no-holes agreement. I meet her at the gym; she's wearing a daring red dress that shows more of her tits and ass than a bikini probably would.

I should be in hog heaven, but I'm more occupied wondering what kind of food they've got inside than whether she'll let me slip a hand beneath that dress.

We hunt down our friends, separately. Lola's not interested in making polite small talk with Stan, Kyle, and Cartman. I'm not interested in chatting up the dull, airheaded bimbos she calls friends. It's a win-win.

Stan and Kyle are sitting at a table in the far corner of the gym, away from the glaringly bright glow of heart shaped lanterns and fairy lights and glitter spiraling like snowflakes from the ceiling. They're both stag. They're also whispering together at the romantically lit table. Jealousy spikes through me.

"What d'you say we liven up this party a bit?" I slide into one of the chairs next to Kyle. When he glances up at me, he smiles so brightly I might just go blind for it, but I suddenly feel like I'm okay with that as long as his face is the last thing I see.

Stan coughs from his chair across the table. That's about when I realize that maybe I've been staring at Kyle and his smile for a little longer than is socially acceptable. Whoops. Guess my brain didn't get the memo about the whole 'no homo' thing.

"Hey, Kenny," Stan says, and he's such a fuckin' gentleman, all the fuckin' time. I can tell he's pissed that I interrupted the super best friends at whatever super best conversation they were indulging in, but he's tryin' his best to cover it up. It's annoying. I hate that we've been friends forever and a day but he still can't bring himself to act natural around me. At least not when the SBF's around.

"Dude, is there a reason you guys aren't hounding after pussy, or is this some kind of get-girls tactic I don't know about?"

Kyle gives me a look. Stan gives him a look.

I just look at the ceiling and the metallic hearts poised to spear me down with their pointy tips should they fall. That would be poetic justice.

When no one answers me, I demand, "Where's Cartman?"

Stan seems relieved as he answers, like he thinks maybe I'll get up and hunt lardbutt down. Like I really fucking care where Eric Cartman is.

"He's dancing with Wendy."

"I thought he said she was a ho."

"A ho who might touch his dick," Kyle replies, glancing at Stan apologetically.

Stan waggles his fingers in the air, staring at Kyle all the while, "Don't worry about it. I am completely over her."

Yeah, dude. We know.

I'm tempted to say it out loud, but I don't want to sound like a complete douchebag. At least, not more of one than they already think I am.

Before I can think of something else to stall whatever it was Stan and Kyle were talking about, heads bent together in concentration, Lola materializes from the dance floor.

"Kenny," she purrs in this low, sultry voice. Her breath stinks like rum; one of her dumb bitch friends must've had a flask, "Let's dance."

I'm tempted to tell her to fuck off, but to be fair, it's partially her dance. She helped decorate, and she got all trussed up, and I'm just not that much of an asshole that I want to purposely ruin it for her. There's only so many dances left in our senior year.

"Sure."

There's a fast paced house track crackling over the loudspeakers that usually play out school announcements. The DJ isn't all that high tech, or up to date on what high school students might actually like dancing to. The beat's erratic and I don't know how to move my hips the way Lola wants me too. It doesn't seem to bother her. She's tossing her hair and shaking her butt and jutting her breasts right into my face. If anyone else notices the obvious mating ritual, they're not staring.

Maybe because all the other girls on the floor are doing the same thing.

Over her shoulder, I can see Kyle and Stan talking again. Kyle's got these earnest eyes. He focuses completely on whomever he's talking to; which is why he has no idea I'm staring up a storm. Stan puts his hand on Kyle's arm, and after a second, he doesn't move it.

Fuckin' pervert.

Lola notices she doesn't have all my attention. She gets bolder, pressing her lips to the side of my neck. It's nice, I guess. Kind of tickles. She keeps mouthing over my collarbone and up my jugular, like some kind of teething baby. Fuck it. I dip my head, pressing my lips to hers.

She makes an appreciative noise that reverberates in my mouth. She kisses like it's going out of style, but I don't know. It's sort of awkward, like when you're forced to play seven minutes in heaven with a complete stranger.

She must know I'm not all that into it, because now she's winding her hands through my hair, gripping strands so tightly they might rip out. After a minute or two, she moves my hands so that they stroke up and down her sides, and it's only then I realize she's trying to evoke somethin'.

Okay, wow. Since when did girls _want_ you to pop a boner in front of the entire senior class?

Lola presses the warm line of her body into mine, grinding against me in a futile attempt to get a reaction. Seconds pass; nothing. At first I don't worry about it, but after her thrusts against me get a little wilder, I realize that this is a problem. It only takes another moment until I'm full on freaking out.

I can't get hard, and I don't know why. Functioning equipment has never been a problem before, not when it comes to girls. Why now? Why this?

Fuck, maybe I am gay.

"What the hell's wrong with you, Kenny?" she pulls her lips away from me like ripping away a suction cup, and glares, hard.

"Uh- I- bathroom," I choke out, and make a mad dash for the side door of the gym. My hands are shaking. I need a cigarette, badly. There's a crushed carton in my back pocket. I dig it out, tapping one out and lighting it. The flame keeps flickering out; my fingers are trembling so much. When I finally get the stupid thing lit, a voice says, "Kenny?"

Shit. I drop the cigarette in the snow. Now I'm going to have to light another one…

"Kyle?"

"Dude, are you alright? You look like you've seen a ghost."

"Uh-" my voice cracks a little, "Sure, man. I'm cool."

Kyle shrugs, his greens eyes narrowing a little, "Can I share?"

I'm staring at him like, share what? He points to the cigarette embers fizzling out in the snow. Wordlessly, I nod and tap out one more. This time my fingers only tremble half as much.

I have enough this time that we can each have our own, but something makes me pretend this is the last smoke in the carton. Kyle doesn't mind.

At first there's no conversation. We suck in carcinogens like oxygen and say nothing, give nothing of ourselves. We're both workin' up the nerve to talk, tryin' to remember how to be friendly without being _too_ friendly. Or at least, I am.

Kyle says abruptly, "I wanted to talk to you about Stan."

"S-stan?"

I must look spooked, 'cause Kyle explains, "I know things have been weird with us, but I really need someone to talk to right now."

Oh.

Oh, that I can understand.

My mouth answers before my mind can even catch up, "Sure, what's going on?"

"The truth is things with Stan and I have…I guess you could say they've been awkward too, since the party."

I snort, "Yeah, I'll bet."

"Kenny," he reproaches, but the sparkle in his eyes lets me know he's just as amused by our friend's complete humiliation as I am, even if it's problematic for him.

"So?" I prompt, not willing to let Kyle change his mind and lecture me for mocking his super bestie.

"I'm just a little worried- I don't want this to make you uncomfortable, dude."

"I promise I won't be uncomfortable," I hold up three fingers, "Scout's honor."

Yeah. Total lie, that.

"Okay. I think Stan might be- he could be- he is, definitely," Kyle corrects himself firmly, "Into me."

"Well I could have told you that in like, third grade."

"That's not what I mean!"

"I know," I sigh, because I don't want Kyle to see that I'm not just uncomfortable; I'm completely and totally itching to run for the hills, "The question becomes, Broflovski; are you into him?"

The hesitance before he speaks, the way his hands fumble through his hair; it tells me everything.

"You are," I accuse flatly.

Something inside me is dying. I hope it shrivels and leaves me the hell alone.

Given my body's penchant for zombification, I doubt it will.

"I- Kenny," Kyle's got this glint in his eyes, this set of his lips, like he's determined to say something that's been on his mind. Before he can, the door swings open. Stan's standing there, peeking around the bend with his stupid, perfect black hair and his perfect farmboy shoulders and his perfect cobalt eyes. He's Clark fucking Kent.

Something about seeing him makes me so angry. Good for him. Kyle likes him. He likes Kyle. They can be gay together.

Except Kyle and I kissed. I was the first guy Kyle's lips touched.

He doesn't know Stan's here; his back is facing the doors.

This part of me, this ugly, twisted, jealous part of me is screaming for me to remind Kyle who he belongs to. To show Stan that I got there first.

I place a hand on Kyle's shoulder, like I'm about to deliver the best advice of his life. The cigarette dangles between his lips, so with my other hand, I pluck it away. He opens his mouth, and it's just; hey, an opening.

I go for it.

I fucking slip up and tongue Kyle again. To keep Stan fucking away.

I don't stop kissing him until I hear the door close behind me, and he does too. He pulls away with startled eyes, "Did someone just see us?"

"It was just Stan," I reply like a nonchalant dickhead.

His eyes get wide and disbelieving.

"You knew he was there? Kenny!"

I don't say anything to defend myself. I can't. There's absolutely nothing in the world _to_ say.

He keeps staring, like maybe words will start tumbling out of my mouth. When they don't, he blinks, shakes his head. There's something akin to disappointment in his eyes.

That's about when I realize I just kissed Kyle. Again. A-fucking-gain! The implications drop down on me like a ton of bricks, and then Kyle's leaving.

Chasing after Stan.

* * *

A/N: Oh hi there. Long time, no see. I'm sorry; I've been focusing a lot of attention on Brace Yourself and SLU, which kind of put this fic on the back burner. But you reviewers are loyal, and good for the kick in the ass I needed to get writing this again. God, I haven't updated in so long I actually forgot what the last chapter was about. I began writing something to continue like, chapter nine. I'm going to have to give this thing more attention and start working on my Kenny voice again. Please review, and I promise I'll do a quick update this time around.


	14. Ride Into The Sun

**Breathe Me**

_Chapter Fourteen: Ride Into The Sun_

By: Jondy Macmillan

A/N: I'm relatively certain everyone shall hate me for this chapter, but as it was a part of the plot since day one, I've made the executive decision to run with it.

* * *

School dances suck. School dances where you attack your best friend like a zombie in need of brains suck even harder. Especially when you replace the word 'brains' with 'lipsandteethandsaliva'. Something must be done.

I've got this idea. It's not one of my best.

Kevin knows this guy, this high school buddy of his who swings both ways. What I'm doing; it isn't right. I get that.

If I really want to know, I should just ask Kyle to do this with me. At worst, I might like it and he won't, and our friendship will be irrevocably shattered.

Yeah, not risking that.

Even though Kev's bud is rumored to be kind of rough and even though Kevin would kill me if he knew, it's still better than losing one of the only friends I have.

I take a long deep breath before approaching the guy. He's at work; an auto body shop. At first all I can see is his coveralls and his boots. He's foolin' around underneath some car that's already a wreck.

It looks like a lost cause. Just like me.

I clear my throat to get him to notice me. When he emerges, he's covered in oil stains, but he's got that hick-handsome thing going; a corn-fed All American boy. Reminds me of Stan.

I don't want to think about Stan right now, because that just leads to thinkin' 'bout Kyle and pure, untainted guilt, so I shift all nervous-like and ask if he remembers me.

"Sure," he grins, but his eyes are inscrutable, "You're Kevin's baby brother. Keith?"

"Kenny," I correct. I'm not disappointed that he doesn't remember me, because I tried to be invisible when Kevin's high school friends came 'round. They were a tough crowd, and bein' remembered by them was the last thing I wanted. 'Til now.

"What can I do you for, Kenny?" my name lingers in his mouth.

I feel filthy, and I haven't even done anything yet.

"What time you get off?"

He's debating whether or not to make a dirty joke with or to be proper, I can tell. I've got to convince him I'm not a kid and quick.

I shift my backpack full of books and say enticingly, "I brought beer."

His eyes light up. Of course. Warm beer; tastes like piss and is a redneck staple.

"Well…" his eyes dart toward the clock, and I notice he's got long eyelashes shadin' all those greases stains on his cheeks, "I guess I kin take a short break."

I nod, like I expected he would.

I did, after all.

It takes the entire six pack to convince him that takin' advantage of Kevin McCormick's little brother is a good idea. He even offers to pay me.

I don't turn the cash down.

It only takes twenty minutes for the whole thing to be over. It's rough and unsatisfying and makes me interminably hard. More than any girl ever has.

Now I know.

* * *

I skip school for a few days. There's too much shit going on. I can't focus on homework and faking nice with my friends and avoiding mirrors all at the same time. Butters Stotch brings me my class work and notes every day, diligently, even though I've never been all that nice to the kid. He's an easy target, and I've never liked it when people leave themselves open for ridicule like that.

Mirrors; yeah. I'm sure you're wonderin' 'bout that.

Every time I look in the mirror after what I've done, what I see isn't me. There's my body, long, lean, and purplish blue with bruises along my hips and abdomen. There's my messy hair and my scars from that one time I tried skateboarding.

But that person there, it isn't Kenny McCormick.

He's something so much worse.

I let Kevin's friend use me. I used him right back.

My pride is cracked, tarnished. It was just once, but that was enough.

Now what everyone says is true.

I'm a whore.

I'm a slut.

They're just labels, but I repeat each one silently, letting the letters pierce through me with disgust. I finally surrendered myself, and now I'm lost.

I need to remind myself why I did this. To know. To know who I am. To know what I want. It was never for money like everyone expected of me; only for him.

That's the root of it. I did this to know if I could stand being with Kyle.

Kyle, who only wants Stan. How many sacrifices can I make for a boy who doesn't even see me?

The night before I decide to finally go back to school, I dig the necklace Kyle gave me out of the trash on my dresser, staring at it, scrutinizing it, like it's the key to all the answers I need.

Dude. I realize things don't have to happen for a reason. I realize things don't have to mean anything at all. I've known this since I was born, practically, when my family had nothing but the blood in our veins and the air in our lungs to keep us going.

But now I wonder if I was fated to be like this. Poor, gay, and outcast.

Maybe even in love with a boy who couldn't even fathom loving me back.

* * *

Morning dawns and it's snowing and it's achingly cold and it's a sky so gray it might as well be made of metal. I don't want to get out of bed, but I'm a McCormick. We're fighters by nature.

I force my stiff legs to move, to carry me up and into the kitchen. My mom's cooking waffles, her favorite gourmet meal.

"Hey, baby," she chirps over the toaster, "How you feelin' today? You been lookin' somethin' awful lately."

"Thanks," I drawl, kind of annoyed at how chipper my mother can be in the morning, especially when I know for a fact she spent the night on a bender, fightin' and fuckin' with dad.

"Here, muffin," she pets my head like I'm one of the strays she's always bringing home and shoves a plate of burnt Ego in front of my face, "Have some nourishin'."

"Ma, I'm gonna be late for school."

"Kenny," she warns.

"Fine," I take a bite of blackened waffle that takes an hour to chew through and tastes like dirt, "Satisfied?"

She grins all wicked-like and crosses her arms, "Boy, if you're gonna sass me just get your skinny butt out that there door."

I can tell she's not pissed by the way she flicks her washcloth at me when I scurry out the door. Dad must have been doing some real romancing last night.

Trampling through the falling snow, I make my way to the bus stop. Frigid days like these, I wish I had a car. I pull my parka more tightly around me, but the damned thing's so threadbare that it doesn't help for shit. I'd normally call up Stan or Kyle and tell them to haul ass over here so that I'll be spared the indignity of the bus, but fuck, I've gotta feeling I'm not gonna like what I see when they're inevitably together. So I lock down all my protests and stand by the stop. I'm the only kid at this end of town other than my three faggy friends, and none of 'em take the bus anymore. Hope the driver doesn't forget to stop 'round these parts.

I luck out. Driver pulls up, late and harried with a kid in pigtails pullin' the short hairs at the back of his neck. He yells at me to get the fuck on the bus, and I obey.

I'm scared of what I might find when I get to school. I'm shakin' in my snow boots.

I feel like maybe, in my absence, Stan must've jumped on the chance to get with Kyle, and the super best friends could have become super best boyfriends. I guess that has more to do with my calling out sick than the whole gettin' fucked by a grade A douchebag thing. Sex is never going to be as big a deal as gettin' royally screwed over by the one guy I might have feelings for.

Feelings are dumb. Man, running away still feels like an option.

No. I clench my fists. I gotta do this.

I kind of expect it to be like the movies; to be bombarded with the accusing glares of my peers and on the receiving end of all my teachers' prejudices. And okay, maybe I am getting the brunt of all the teachers' problems, but that's because they think I'm a moron, not because they have any idea what gets my dick hard.

All in all, it's not bad.

Not until lunch, anyway.

I make it to my usual table ahead of time, just so I'll have a good seat to watch if and when the drama unfolds. Something in my gut tells me there _will _be drama, even if I can't put my finger on the why or how of it.

"God, what the hell Po'Boy? You've been out of class forever. Got the hiv or something?"

"The what?" I glance up sharply as Cartman slams his tray down and slides on the bench beside me. The entire table set drops like, ninety degrees. Okay, maybe not that much.

"The hiv, you know. The HIV? 'Cause that's what fags like you get, I hear."

"What exactly did you hear?" I begin to silently freak out. How is it possible that he knows? Kyle didn't tell, did he?

"Jesus, what's got your panties in a bunch? I'm just saying, Kenneh, you've got to be careful with anal pirates like Kyle and Stan around."

"Kyle and…Stan?"

"I'm just sayin' what with the hippie jacking off and moaning the Jew's name and all-"

Cartman's voice is cut off when Stan smacks him across the head with a lunch tray, "You know what? That was a sad and emotional time for me, alright? Some _douchebag_ was screwing around with my girlfriend. And I only told you because you got me drunk."

"He got you drunk?" I stare at Stan, searching for any sign that he looks different. Because, he does. He looks…happy. Happier, I mean. Usually Stan's just neutral. He glows when Kyle's around, sure, but he's never been one of those happy, shiny people.

Now his smile is practically blinding, "Cartman spiked the punch at the Valentine's dance. I was a goner."

The smile doesn't vanish. My heart drops. There is only one reason for Stan Marsh to be this happy.

"Kenny!" I stiffen at the voice behind me, the hand on my shoulder, "Dude, we were all really worried about you. Feeling better?"

"Great," I squeak, "Just peachy."

I won't turn around. I won't meet his eyes.

"Oh, dude, Kyle! I meant to ask, do you want to come over to my house after school and…study?"

Kyle reddens, or at least I think he does from Stan's satisfied smile. His hand slips off my shoulder. Shit, shit, shit.

"Study's their new code for make out. Fags," Cartman scoffs, digging into his sandwich. I'd be surprised that he's taking this so well if I wasn't preoccupied by the soul crushing agony in my chest.

"It is not! Cartman, you take that back!"

"I just call 'em like I see 'em, Kahl."

"You need to get your vision checked."

"Even blind I could see how fagtastic you two are. Are you trying to hide it now? Really, Kyle? Really?"

"Cartman," Kyle warns, but I've had enough. I thought I could handle this, but there's no way I can. I leave for a couple days, and all of a sudden Stan and Kyle are- what? I don't even know. I don't want to know.

"What's wrong with Kenneh?" Cartman demands through a mouthful of tuna, but I don't stick around to hear the response. I'm on my feet and out of the cafeteria before Kyle or Stan can say another word.

* * *

A/N: DON'T KILL ME!!! It's my birthday in two days, and I'd like to live to see it! Oh wait, not even two. It's my birthday in less than twenty four hours. Let's see, it's 3:35 am right now, and I was born at 1:49 am on the fourteenth of January! Yeesh, why am I sitting around writing fic? Lol, okay, please review, even if you now hate me forever for letting Kenny have rough, dirty sex with a local gay hick.

Also, a lot of you have been asking if this story is going to end up style. No. This story has always and will always be k squared. Style's just…a means of getting there; I'm very fond of love triangles.


	15. To The Beggars And The Cheaters

**Breathe Me**

_Chapter Fifteen: To The Beggars And The Cheaters And The Kings Who Rise At Noon_

By: Jondy Macmillan

A/N: Oh, gosh. Guys, I need to start reading SP fic again. It's been months since I've read any new fic for this fandom because my interest has strayed, and I'm only just keeping up with authors I already had on my alert- most of whom are slowing down too. Life's been so crazy lately, it's felt like it's impossible to keep up. But I keep writing for you guys, because you're all so awesome and supportive. So thank you for that. I'm slightly upset though- I had bits of this written and they seem to have disappeared. I'm not sure where they went.

* * *

The cold air hits me like a punch to the gut, but I keep walking. Across the lawn and through the snow towards the black river of asphalt. I'm not about to run in front of a bus, because- been there, done that. Not fun.

Road kill is not a good look for me.

But I guess it must look like I'm going to dive beneath the bumper of the nearest large vehicle, 'cause the next thing I know I hear the slap of sneakers against the sidewalk and feel bony fingers wrap around my shoulders.

"Dude," Kyle breathes near my ear, "What are you doing?"

"Going home?" I cock my head to the side, "Is that a problem?"

I hear Kyle sigh in relief, and he lets me go.

Shame, that. The warmth of his hands was…nice.

"What are you going to do about fifth period?" he demands, his red curls spilling from beneath the black beanie he snatched up to protect his ears from the cold. I think its Stan's. I saw it before by his lunch tray, and besides, he's the only one emo enough to wear black when spring's rounding the bend.

They share clothes. Yes, it's annoying.

"Well, I was planning on napping," I reply, completely aware that I'm coming off as snide. It's not like I'm missing anything anyway. Senior year is rounding the corner, coming to a close. Soon enough we'll begin to see which colleges deigned to open their gates to us, and they won't be looking at my less than stellar attendance records post application, no matter what the guidance counselors say.

"Why are you being like this?" he forces me to face him, going so far as to dart around me when I try to turn the opposite way.

"I'm not being like anything," I reply, annoyed. I'm not up for sharing after that whole show-and-tell display in the cafeteria, "Go back inside."

"Uh, let me think about that- no."

"Kyle."

"Kenny," he intones, almost sounding bored.

"I'm serious. I'm just- I'm not feeling good. Go back to the cafeteria. Stan's probably wanting," I hate the jealousy that creeps into my voice when I say that.

Kyle doesn't seem to notice. His expression transforms into one of concern, and he lifts his hand to my forehead, "You don't feel feverish."

Kyle will never admit it, but there's more than a little Sheila Broflovski in him. It comes out at weird moments, like this sudden instant that's almost maternal. The look on his face is soft and vulnerable and concerned, and I can't stand it.

I shove his hand away, "Thanks, _mom_."

He's relentless, "Do you want me to walk you home?"

I can't take it anymore.

Exasperated, I retort, "No. I want you to leave me alone."

"Yeah, well. That's not happening," he crosses his arms, and begins ranting, "You've been skipping class since the Valentine's Day dance, which is not going to look good to all those schools you applied to, by the way, even if you think it doesn't matter, and then on top of that you completely wig out at lunch? Something is wrong, and unless you have some kind of stomach flu, you're obviously not sick."

I consider forcing myself to barf, just to show him up.

Then again, that would be a waste of perfectly good food.

"About that dance. I guess you and Stan got pretty chummy."

Kyle shifts from foot to foot, reddening.

"Did you hook up with him?"

I can see the change that comes over his face, the gathering darkness like storm clouds. He gets this pinched expression, like he's getting a flu vaccination or he's listening to Ike explain string theory- wait, maybe that would be me, or like he's trying to find an explanation for how he landed in this situation. It's not like I've accused him of infidelity, even if it sound like it. You have to be involved for there to be cheating, and Kyle and I are nothing but friends who've indulged in occasional flirtation, if I can even call it that. Longing glances and underlying tension are hardly flirting the way I learned it. Maybe I should compliment his eyes, the way they burn with intensity. Maybe I should tell him how adorable he kind of looks, his cheeks pink from the cold, from embarrassment, from-

"Maybe. A little."

My stomach drops to my feet, and when I glance down I expect to see it lying on the ground, with all the rest of my organs, especially the most useless one.

Hearts are overrated anyway.

"A little? How much is a little?"

"You know. A little."

I grunt, "No. I don't fucking know, Kyle."

I knew they had. I knew it. Stan wouldn't have been so happy, otherwise.

"We just- we just kissed, alright?"

"It's not, actually," I know that I'm doing the worst thing, that walking away will just antagonize him and possibly ruin our friendship. I don't care. I ache in a way I'm not used to. I can still feel the imprint of Kevin's friend' hands on my hips, and the searing way Kyle's mouth moved over mine, and none of it means a thing. I head across the street, towards the pedestrian crossing like lines of latitude and longitude on a map. X marks the spot where I screwed everything up.

Kyle runs to catch up with me in the middle of the cross walk, his footsteps thudding against asphalt, his breath uneven, ragged, "Kenny, you can't just jerk me around like this-"

"I'm gay."

Kyle's eyes widen, jewel green irises thinning with surprise, and I tack on quietly, "And I'm not the one who's jerking anyone around. You ran away from me."

"I-"

"You ran away from me to make out with your super best friend."

"It wasn't like that."

I want to ask him what it was like. Did they go to Stan's house, kiss on his bed so that their bodies fit together like puzzle pieces? Did they do it right there, behind the gym, with the 'romantic' music of our school's Valentine dance swelling to a crescendo around them? I have a million scenarios in my head, and none of them are helping make any of this okay.

My voice cracks a little, and I say, "I just- forgive me, and we can go back to normal."

Forgive me for kissing him, forgive me for sleeping with Kevin's friend, and forgive me for having any of these feelings to begin with. All I want is Kyle's blessing, like it's a fix-all that will make me forget any of this ever happened.

"Forgive you? Dude, why should I?"

"W-what?"

"W-what?" Kyle mocks. He turns me to face him, there, in the middle of the road. We must look somethin' crazy. His expression turns kind, and he takes my face between his hands. I can feel the warmth of his fingertips through my cheeks, all the way to my teeth as he says firmly, "There's nothing to forgive, Kenny. Nothing."

"I kissed you."

"I liked it."

I perk up a little, but my voice still sounds horribly sad in a way I've never heard myself sound before, "Then why did you go to Stan."

Kyle sucks in a breath, like now he's the one who's been punched, "I thought you were fucking around again."

"Hunh?"

"When I first asked you about- being gay, you didn't take it seriously. You acted like it was a huge joke. I thought this last time was the same, that you were making fun of me."

"Why would I kiss you to make fun of you?"

"Okay, I can't be charmingly intuitive all the time, okay. And to be honest, when I saw Stan standing there, I thought maybe it wasn't me you were fucking around with."

"You thought I was trying to make Stan jealous?"

He gives me an inscrutable look, "Weren't you?"

Yes. But not for the reasons he obviously thought. I didn't do that so Stan would freak out and I could laugh about it. I did it to make a statement. I wanted him to see that Kyle was mine.

Wow, how it backfired.

"Thinking what I did, I guess I kind of lost it. I mean, if that had been true, did you want me to just wait around forever?"

"Did I- wait, what?"

"You heard me, Kenny. I tried to tell you- that I- how I…you know. And you- I mean, I don't think you get it, dude. I'm not into Stan. I like- you," he pauses, like I've somehow rendered him breathless, and I think maybe it's the shock of saying the words out loud because he repeats, "I like you."

"But- then- okay," I sigh, raking a hand through my hair, "I'm confused."

I'm kind of elated, too. But I'm a McCormick. I know not to celebrate until things have been confirmed, like when you touch a mine and it doesn't immediately blow up in your face.

That's also happened to me, by the way.

Kyle delights in explaining things. Seriously, his eyes light up, flash like lightning at the idea of teaching someone something new.

"Look, I can't deny that he's- attractive," I watch him taste the word, roll it on his tongue. I wonder if he'd ever really thought about Stan and how _attractive _he really was. Between his thick, dark hair, his homegrown, fresh-off-the-farm, football toned body, and his carefree boy scout smile, calling Stan anything less than handsome is actually kind of insulting.

Not that I'm interested in him that way. That would be like popping a boner for Kevin. When they say we're all inbred around here, they're joking- well, usually.

"And he gets me," Kyle continues, "Which is- nice. But he's more like…my brother."

"I see the resemblance. But Ike doesn't have those dreamy blue eyes," I drawl, still on the defensive. I've begun edging Kyle out of the street, because even if this isn't a busy road, cars do make the occasional appearance, and all this thinking has reminded me how I haven't died recently.

Kyle's glare is lethal, "No. I mean that I feel the same way about him that I do for my brother. And- I'm not into incest."

"Dude. You hooked up with Stan. Does that mean I'm going to have to start keeping an eye on Ike when he gets older?"

C'mon. The guy deserves to be fucked with. That explanation was so stuttered and awkward that it just calls for some mockery.

"I'm not answering that," Kyle replies faintly, squeezing his eyes shut in disgust. The wind gusts between the space between us and I shiver as we make it to the opposite curb.

"No. I'm serious. Are you going to jump Ike in his sleep when he starts growing body hair?"

"You sick bastard."

"This is a valid concern, Kyle."

"Bite me."

"I'd rather not. Some of that redneck might rub off."

"I think it's a little late for that, Kinny," he does a perfect imitation of my mom's voice.

Tow can play at that game.

"I'm glad you've embraced it, really. There's nothin' so sad as forgettin' yer heritage," I drawl back exaggeratedly, "I think it's a cryin' shame-"

He kisses me. My entire world fragments and pieces itself back together again, remaking me from Kenny McCormick, poor boy, sex symbol, hick, into Kenny McCormick, the guy who Kyle Broflovski kisses.

I'm thinking gay things, like that he tastes like spun sunlight when he wrenches away and spouts, "You're an idiot."

I'm grinning like one, for sure.

"Not exactly new information."

He's beaming too, "I know. I just felt like reinforcing that knowledge."

"So, uh," I begin, acutely uncomfortable with the question I want to ask, bursting with energy too because now- now the celebration begins. He likes me. He wasn't lying.

He _likes _me.

_Me._

Not Stan.

Shit. I don't ever want anyone to feel as awful as I've felt these past few weeks.

"What does this, uh, mean?"

"It means I want to be with you, doofus."

Ah, the terms of endearment. Soon we'll have pet names, like assface and cockmuncher.

"Okay, but- what about Stan?"

"Are you suggesting a threesome?"

I glare at him, but I can't keep it up for long. I'm too goddamned ecstatic. The taste of him tingles on my lips, and all I want to do is reenact that kiss a thousand times over.

The glare doesn't have the desired result. Kyle laughs, "Wow, this Stan thing is really weighing on your conscious, isn't it?"

I give him an incredulous look, "And it isn't on yours?"

No way Mr.-Everything-Is-Black-And-White-Right-And-Wrong hasn't analyzed the ramifications of this six ways until Sunday. Then again, I guess it's so completely not my business. Which is weird, because Kyle and Stan have always been my business, but there's some things I just can't be part of.

"Of course it is. I was just- living in the moment. Carpe diem. I mean. You do want to be with me, right?" he finishes in a small voice.

"Yes," I don't even have to think about it to know it's true. I want to be with Kyle so badly. Even if I don't understand this desire that sprung up out of nowhere in the past few months, I don't care. I'm not Kyle. I don't have to analyze crap for it to make sense. And Kyle and I- we make sense, as much as anything does in this fucked up town, as much as things like love ever can.

Doesn't that seem like such an easy explanation? Like I haven't spent two and a half months struggling to put that together?

Yeah, I thought so.

"Look, just-" he places his hands on my shoulders again, and I'm distracted by the touch, by his proximity. 'Kiss me' goes through my brain a zillion times, and then I remember I'm not a girl, and that I can kiss him, and I'm already leaning in so close are lips almost brush when he says, "Let me deal with Stan."

"Okay," I mumble, wanting to pull back now, because I'd almost forgotten that we were talking about something serious.

He doesn't let me. He fists a hand in the collar of my jacket, and even though he's still wearing Stan's hat, and even though snow is slowly seeping through my sneakers the longer we stand in the same place, he kisses me again.

And for the first time, neither of us run away.

* * *

A/N: This…is not how I expected this chapter to turn out. But I think it turned out okay? Let me know.


	16. Fate Has One Guarantee

**Breathe Me**

_Chapter Sixteen: Fate Has One Guarantee_

By: Jondy Macmillan

A/N: Oooh, mad typos in the last chapter. I was going to go back and fix them, but the uploaded file already expired and I'm too lazy to reup it. So, I apologize for that. Anywho, let's get this show on the road. There are…three chapters left after this one! And thank you all so much for the reviews. I'm serious. I was considering scrapping this thing altogether, and then I re-read them and was like, okay, no, I'm going to do this. So this chapter is totally dedicated to you guys.

* * *

I spent days reanalyzing every move Kyle had ever made involving me. I couldn't figure out how I missed the signs that he liked me. Maybe I'm just a dense bastard.

The necklace he'd given me for Christmas, the gay one; I had to dig it out of the garbage heap that is my room. Back before the debacle with Kev's friend, I'd had half a mind to throw it out for good. I mean, the damned thing was basically reminding me of everything I wanted desperately to forget. But now…I smile at the leather, the thin metal, and clasp it around my neck.

Before, wearing it felt like wearing a collar, like it was somehow shackling me down to things I was ready to commit to. Today, instead, I feel marked. Like everyone can see that I'm Kyle Broflovski's…what, boyfriend? We still haven't really given it a title. I'm not sure if I want to. I wouldn't mind, I guess, I'm just not too keen on going out of my way to label this thing until I'm positive it's ironclad.

I walk out of my room into the kitchen, where the smell of burnt microwavable macaroni wafts into my nose. My dad and Kevin are sitting on the couch, playing a game of Scrabble with a board that's missing half its letters. Plus, I happen to know that 'pine' isn't spelled 'pyne', but I don't even bother to correct 'em. They've been playin' the game this way since I was a kid, back when Kevin was misspelling graffiti emblems on the sides of passing freight trains and the only word my dad could spell correctly was scotch. Not much has changed.

"Son," my dad acknowledges, completely absorbed by his letters. I can see at least three different word combinations, but he's got his mind set on putting down something that looks more like gobbledygook.

"Hey. Goin' out," I tell him, already practically skipping out the front door.

"Wait!" Kevin calls after me and his gaze it inscrutable. He gets up slow and swaggers over with purpose, but there's something about the curve of his mouth that makes me think this isn't going to be a fun conversation.

"Uh, Kev, I've really got to-"

"I got a call today from an old friend," he cuts in, the tone of his words dark.

"That's great, but-"

"Says you came by to see 'im 'bout a week or so back?"

Shit. Fuck. Okay, not a fun conversation. Not at all. In fact, I'm making the executive decision that we're not going to have it. Because, yeah. Fuck.

"Yeah, you know, last week's real hazy and I gotta run," Kevin opens his mouth to interrupt by I speed-talk past him while backing onto the porch, "GotahotdatebyeKev!"

The last thing I can see before the door swings closed is the disappointment on Kevin's face.

* * *

I wasn't lying about having a date. Well, I kind of have to hit up work for a solid eight hours before it, but even that can't dampen my enthusiasm. It's a slow day at the gas station. I sell a carton of cigarettes to a hunting party on their way up the mountain, where they'll probably catch a couple of rabbits and spend so much time getting shit faced that it'll be nothing short of a miracle if one of 'em doesn't end up at Hell's Pass with a bullet hole in their anatomy by dawn. Then there's some hoity toity lady from North Park who wants directions to the Mayor's office, which is already closed for the day, but when I tell her so she'd doesn't believe me. Actually, she calls me something real rude before driving off with a dust cloud trailing her Jaguar, but somewhere in between all that I managed to give her some wonky directions. She'll most likely end up crossin' paths with those hunters at some point. Anyway, not a lucrative day, right? It don't matter. I was smiling like a fool the whole time.

Kyle and I agreed to meet up at Raisin's, which isn't exactly the classiest joint, but is pretty much the only thing I can afford on my limited budget. He offered to take me somewhere nicer, but I refuse to be the girl in this relationship.

Kyle's already there, seated at a booth with that really stupid girl, Porsche, from our history class hovering over him, talking his ear off. He mostly looks bored.

Guess it's time to play knight in shining armor. I breeze into the booth, elbowing Porsche out of the way none too gently, because hey, she's stupid, she'll bounce back. She doesn't even object, just squeals, "Kenny!" and throws her arms around my shoulders. That makes me feel slightly bad about being such a pushy dick; I'd forgotten that moron or not, she can be a total sweetheart.

She asks what we'll be havin' and we give our orders with the practiced efficiency of two frequent patrons. When she leaves, prancing the whole way back to the kitchen like some kind of ballet dancer, Kyle turns to me and grins, "You made it."

"Was there any doubt?"

"No. Maybe. Just a little."

"I'm hurt."

"No you're not," his grins gets wider, "Jerk."

Under the table, his knee's pressed to mine, warm familiar. For a minute I worry that everyone can see, but nobody's looking at us. Nobody even seems to notice we're there.

When our food comes, Kyle begins talking about college, and all the schools we applied to. Which are mostly the same, excepting one or two of the Ivy Leagues I had no chance at. Kyle doesn't think he'll get in to them, but I'm of the opinion that Kyle's full of shit. It's a topic we've been avoiding even before all this gay crap started, back when we were just two friends who wanted to go to school together.

He must notice that I'm frowning or something because he kicks me underneath the table, the heat of his knee leaving for a second or two before returning, along with a sharp pain in my shin, "Hey. Stop moping. You're going to get in somewhere."

"God, I hope so."

"I know so," Kyle crosses his arms, this huge pompous smile on his lips, "You had the best tutor in town."

"Which is why you're going to end up at Harvard or somethin'," I grumble.

"Shut up. I'm not going to Harvard. I didn't even apply to Harvard."

"Bet that pleased your mom."

"Not so much, no," Kyle tilts his head and says, "I want to stay here, with you guys."

"Kyle, you can't-"

"I can," he says.

"But it's stupid to stick around just for m-" I realize how arrogant what I'm about to spit out sounds and correct, "Us."

Goddamn Kyle and his excellent hearing. His smile has been growing progressively this whole night, and when he says, "Just for you?" I think his face is going to split open.

"I didn't mean it like that."

"Good. Because, I'm not doing it just for you, Kenny. You're part of the equation, but- I want to spend college with my best friends. Is that such a bad thing?"

"With Stan?"

"Yeah," he says, without a hint of ingenuity. I wince a little bit, because I kind of don't want Stan to be in the equation at all, but then I feel like a horrible friend. And he's right. I mean, how much would it rock to be able to spend another four years with Kyle and Stan and-

"Even with Cartman?"

"Eh," he replies airily, "I s'pose that fat fuck can come along for the ride."

It's nice. I don't know if Stan and Cartman are going to go along with it, or even want it, but the whole idea of it is just- a nice thought.

"Okay," I agree, smiling back, "I guess I'm okay with that."

"Like you even had an option," he retorts, but the venom in it is lost over the chicken wing he's chewing on.

We start talking about the rest of our day, and at some point it comes up that I was nearly late for work because of Kevin.

"Your brother? What'd he want?" Kyle demands, knowing me and Kev have a complicated relationship when it comes to things like communicating outside of noogies and arm wrestling.

Except I might have made a misstep here, because the last thing I want to do is tell Kyle about why Kevin stopped me this afternoon. When I look at him, he gazing back with so much curiosity, so much actual interest in the things I say- and it's such a _Kyle _thing to do. Most people listen without actually hearing a word, and most people stare right through _me. _He's so different, and the last thing I want to do is fuck up this delicate, fluttery feeling I get every time he meets my eyes by making him look at me in a new way. The way Kevin did this morning. Like I'd proven everyone in this goddamn town right by making myself a whore.

With Kyle, sometimes I think it would be better if he could only breathe me, all my thoughts and feelings so that I never have to explain them. So that he'd already know, and just by his presence, I'd know that he didn't care that I'm a complete and total fuckup.

Only that isn't how life works. I have to tell him.

It wouldn't be fair to keep this a secret. But it's not fair that I have to do this right from the start when everything's new and fresh and wonderful.

I do it anyway, "I…before you and I, after the Valentine's dance-"

My voice is shaky, and Kyle reaches across the table to touch my hand, "Hey. Hey, are you okay?"

"I- look, I was going to tell you, but I didn't know how."

"Kenny, what happened?"Real worry is seeping into his expression, and I loathe that I put it there. I'm bringing so much unnecessary drama into this, and I really, really don't want him to hate me for it.

I blurt, "I slept with one of Kevin's friends. Once. I mean, I had sex with him. We didn't sleep. There was no sleeping involved, the guy's a total sleezeball and his place is probably a wreck, so obviously that wasn't an option, it was just-"

Kyle holds out his hand to stop me, and when I meet his gaze there's disappointment and everything I didn't want to see, "Why would you do that?"

"I-" I grimace and stare down at my empty plate, "I needed to know. I needed to know if I really was- gay, for any guy, not just you, and afterwards, I knew, and- I shouldn't have done it. I'm sorry."

"Why are you _apologizing_, Kenny?" he tugs at my hand, "This isn't something you need _me _to forgive. I mean, it-"

He stops talking for a second, gathering his thoughts, and I watch him, the myriad of emotions racing over his face, and more than anything I want to kiss that huge smile back onto his lips.

"- it hurts. I mean, fuck, yeah. I wish you hadn't done it. But- we weren't together yet-" is that what we are now? Really together, I want to ask, because I'm still not sure. He continues, "-and the reason I think it sucks so bad is- Kenny, you're so much better than that."

He's staring at me again, eyes so green they might as well be toxic, "You're so much better than you think you are. Having sex with one of Kevin's hick friends, it's- beneath you."

"I know," I admit quietly. When he doesn't say anything, I add, "Does- this isn't going to- I mean, are we-"

I don't get a chance to finish whatever I'm going to say, which is good, because it probably would have involved another five minutes of butchering the English language while I searched for something that sounded right. Kyle saves me by leaning across the table and pulling me towards him in a hug. Our plates clink together when they're pushed forward, but I barely hear it. His lips are buried in my neck and he whispers, "Don't say that. Don't even think it. We haven't gone through all this for one stupid mistake to end it all."

I have to choke back this wave of emotion that closes my throat, makes my eyes prick. He pulls back a little and says, "If that were true, we'd be fucked. You make a lot of stupid mistakes."

Kyle's eyes are shining, and all I want is to kiss him.

So I do.

Which is kind of when everything goes to hell.

"Oh, _fuck_! Kenneh, you let the hippie and the Jew _infect _you?"

It rings out across the restaurant, and it's a measure of how much shit goes down in South Park that only a few heads turn when Kyle and I break apart to look at Cartman.

Who's standing right next to Stan. And okay, edging away from him like he has a contagious disease, but that takes backseat to the expression on Marsh's face.

And Kyle's.

* * *

A/N: Three more chapters left, yay! Please review!


	17. Holding On While Cursing You

**Breathe Me**

_Chapter Seventeen: Holding On While Cursing You_

By: Jondy Macmillan

* * *

"You didn't tell him?" I kick the wall behind Raisin's, "I can't believe you didn't tell him!"

"Okay, look, I was going to tell him," Kyle puts his hands on my shoulders, trying to restrain me from breaking my own foot, "I'm _going _to tell him."

"Really, Kyle? Then why did I just have to explain to an entire restaurant that I fucking slipped over the table and _fell _onto your mouth?" I shout, pushing his hands off of me.

I've never liked admitting I'm wrong; usually I try to avoid admitting anything all together. But what just went down was pretty much the ultimate admission of wrongdoing- I felt like a cartoon super villain, what with the way Stan had been looking at me. Maybe I'm being a little- okay, _extremely _melodramatic, but the journey to get where I'm standing has been long, difficult, and really, really fuckin' confusing. I don't like thinking I traveled all this way to end up next to a poorly lit dumpster that reeks of day-old onion rings.

Trash hanging out with the trash.

At least the redhead has the grace to look ashamed, "I didn't- I couldn't do it there, okay?"

And yeah, I get that but- "That was the least believable explanation I've ever heard in my life, by the way."

"I know."

I can feel myself getting even more riled up at the thought of it, "The only reason Stan even bought it is because he trusts you. _Cartman _is never going to let us live this down, and-"

"I fucking know, Kenny."

"Then," I can't keep the hurt out of my voice, "Why?"

"He deserves better than being dumped in the middle of a crowded restaurant, dude. He deserves more than that."

Goddamn Kyle, with all his 'deserving' and his 'you can be better's. It doesn't lessen the utter mortification I just experienced back in Raisin's, but- I'm calming down.

A little.

"Look," he gives me a tentative smile and tries to pull me back into the circle of his arms, "I promise. I'm going to tell Stan. Soon."

"You're not- like, hooking up with him on the side, are you?"

"What?" his head snaps up, green eyes wide, "No! Idiot."

"Just check-ing."

I realize that Kyle has managed to mollify me within point five seconds, like I'm a huge pushover, but at the same time, his fingers are winding into the collar of my shirt, and he's cocking his head at this mischievous angle, and I don't know what it is about dark alleys and kissing this boy, but I'm so, so relieved when his mouth touches mine.

I believe him, of course. I have no other choice.

* * *

At school the days pass in brilliant color, all painted in shades of Kyle. Kyle during lunch, laughing. Kyle when he ambushes me at the bus stop to show me his first acceptance letter and give me a ride to school. Kyle looking like a proud parent when I get my first letter from a college, even though it's a rejection- Dear sir, we regret to inform you that blah, blah, blah. I tried not to let it get the best of me.

Especially when a few days later Colorado State accepts me. Kyle looks even prouder then. He pulls me out of class and into a janitor's closet to give me a very _thorough _reward. I almost forget that we're not official, that we're this secret nobody knows about.

Other than Cartman, who doesn't really _know _but vocally tells anyone who will listen that we've been butt buddies since second grade. Luckily, no one who matters counts Cartman as an actual person.

The only real hiccup with this whole damn thing is…well, Stan.

He's everywhere. I mean absolutely everywhere. Before this whole debacle, Stan's presence in my life was expected, but mostly unobtrusive. He had his own thing; football practice in the fall and baseball in the spring, a string of girlfriends with clumpy mascara and annoying giggles, and even a volunteer job at Hells Pass.

Now, it's like his life revolves around Kyle.

Maybe it always did, and I never noticed. It's possible; I mean, I never really kept track of Kyle's whereabouts the way I do now. I never wanted to spend every minute, every second that I can with him. I never viewed him as some sort of undercover sexpot whose bones are made for jumping.

Maybe this is all just some idiosyncratic super best habit that I was never made aware of because I never had any reason to be.

Doesn't matter. Whatever it is, it's fuckin' annoying.

I tell Kyle so, several times.

"Shut up, you're imagining it," he informs me as we watch a hockey game on the shitty ten inch TV in my tiny, glassed in cubicle at the Stop N' Pump. The boss isn't around, and even if he was, I doubt he'd mind as long as Kyle stays tucked under the counter, legs tangled with mine. He's there right now, curled into the darkness, his ankles hooked over my own, torn between studying the TV, the old SI magazine covers plastered on the opposite wall, and my face.

"Dude, there's like, mad chewing gum under this counter," he peers up at me through a jungle of red curls with a half-cocked smile.

"I see you changing the subject," I grumble.

"No you don't. I'm being enigmatic. You don't even know it's happening," he deadpans in reply, tapping my calf with the toe of his sneaker.

I roll my eyes and choose not to answer. We've been together three weeks. I'm not happy about this Stan thing, and he knows it's bothering me, but he won't stop making a joke out of it. And I guess some of that is my fault. I don't know why I expected things to change so quickly once we were together, for me to magically be able to slip out of the cycle of _hurthurthurt_ and _acheacheache_. I'd been depending on Kyle to fix everything, somehow, and I'm beginning to get that it's not possible. He can help; with kisses and touches and earnest belief, but he can't do the fixing. That's on me.

I need to quit letting my happiness be totally dependent on him.

Even if this whole situation is irritating beyond belief.

Before I can say anything else, the door bells jingle, and who walks in but stupid Stan himself. He can see me, sitting on my foldout chair with the TV propped up on top of a cardboard box, but he can't see Kyle, on the floor, behind the divider that separates me from any customers who fancy themselves robbers. The boss man has a rifle propped up in the corner behind the chair, right next to the '97 swimsuit issue of Sports Illustrated, for extra insurance. It's not loaded; he began taking out the bullets after the one time I accidentally shot myself in the head a few years back.

I tripped over the damned thing, okay?

"Hey Ken," Stan greets, his smile wide open and familiar. I can feel Kyle's legs tense, his green eyes frozen, like a cat preparing to dart away.

"Dude," I nod curtly.

His eyebrows furrow ever so slightly, and I guess he's wondering why I'm not more ecstatic about his presence. Which- understandable. Usually I'm so bored at work that I'm willing to snatch up any and all conversation that finds me.

Stan slaps down some cash and gestures to the TV, "They winning?"

"I don't know. Game's shit," I inform him, crumpling up his bills and shoving them in our antiquated cash register.

"You okay?" he tilts his head to the side, "Things alright at home?"

Things are _great_ at home. Mom and dad had a raucous fight over money at the beginning of the week, and they've been having even more raucous makeup sex all over the house to compensate. It's been driving me batshit insane.

See what I did there? Raucous. That's an SAT word. I'm so ready for college.

"Peachy, what's with the interrogation?" I grunt, and then feel kinda bad for being such a dick, "Just- slow night."

"I get that," Stan cards his fingers through his thick, dark hair, blue eyes earnest, "Want some company?"

And I do, a little, because this is the first time Stan's been around in a non-annoying, non-cockblocking capacity, at least as far as he _knows_, and I feel like maybe I've fallen out of touch with one of my closest friends. But then Kyle's sneaker knocks against my ankle in warning and I remember that friend or not, he's been making my life pretty hellish of late, so I shake my head and say, "Nah. Raincheck?"

"Sure," he shrugs and throws me an easy grin before walking back out to his car.

"That- was really fucking close," Kyle sighs beneath me.

I frown, "You have to tell him."

Kyle's eyes narrow and he climbs up from beneath the counter, "Kenny-"

"No. What happened to soon, man? You said you'd tell him, _soon_."

"Ken-"

"I'm serious," I grab his wrist, "You _have_ to tell him. This shit is gettin' beyond ridiculous."

Kyle's shoulders slump and he murmurs, "It's really important to you, isn't it?"

"Yeah. Fuck, dude, it really is."

He lowers himself until he's straddling my waist, his arms wrapped around my neck, his forehead pressed to mine, "Okay," he breathes, "Okay, I'll tell him. Tomorrow."

Then he must catch sight of his wristwatch, 'cause he curses and goes, "Shit! Is that the time? Ma's going to kill me!"

I chuckle and push the tops of his thighs with my hands, "Go."

"Thanks. You're the best," Kyle kisses me then, light and fast, still leaving me breathless, and says, "See you tomorrow?"

"Yeah," I watch him unlatch the door that leads into my cubicle and rush outside, and it's only then that I see through the glass window leading out into the snow covered pumps. Stan's standing there, and he's looking straight at me. For the longest time, I return his gaze, refusing to back down. He's the one who turns away, who climbs into his car with a dark look that feels like a promise.

* * *

It isn't until the next morning, while I'm waiting for the bus that Stan finds me, tumbling out of his car in a rush of black clothes and rage.

"Tell me," he demands, jabbing a finger into my sternum like he might break through bone and get to my vital organs, "What's going on between you and Kyle?"

This isn't going to end well. Bummer.

* * *

A/N: /meek/ I updated? I know, it was really short! I'm trying really hard to finish this, but I feel like this was kind of a failtastic chapter, even if it did achieve everything I was aiming for. But I promise, we are very, very close to the end, and you guys are fab with the reviews and the alerts and the encouragement. Keep it coming!


	18. I Wouldn't Want To Be Inside Your Head

**Breathe Me**

_Chapter Eighteen: I Wouldn't Want To Be Inside Your Head_

By: Jondy Macmillan

* * *

"See, as much as I'd like to tell you that, I'm not going to get into this with you right now," I say, shoving my hands in my ripped jeans and wishing like hell I was a perky ass _morning_ person, like Kyle. I'm not sure I can muster up enough of any emotion other than exhaustion right this damn minute, and the way Stan's staring at me, I think I really need to.

At least he hates the mornings as much as I do. He looks miserable.

It occurs to me that it's probably not because of the early hour.

"Why not now? You've been avoiding me for weeks," he spits, and beneath the psycho-Raven façade, he's still Stan, he's still one of my best friends, looking at me like I stabbed him in the back.

"That's- Dude, I don't want to do this."

"Do I look like I'm giving you a choice?" Stan asks quietly, and his eyes are narrow, dangerous.

I'm scared, but not of him. Stan's not a fighter. He might be this hard bodied football player, but he's used to taking hits through layers of padding. And yeah, we all wrestle with each other, but for the most part we take pains not to hurt each other too seriously. So he doesn't exactly have experience throwing a punch, while, me- well. I've got an older brother with some very, very rough friends. But I'm still scared, that Stan will never stop looking at me like that, like I stabbed him in the back.

And in a way, I did.

"Kyle's going to be here soon," I tell him.

I hope to god that Kyle's going to be here soon.

"Kenny, I don't want to hear it from Kyle. I want to hear it from you," Stan looks me straight in the eyes, all hurt and tragic, and he says, "I don't understand any of this."

"I-," I frown, trying to gather my thoughts, trying to figure out what I can possibly say that will make everything okay. I can't think of a single goddamned thing, "I love him."

Stan's eyes go blank, dark beneath the bangs sticking out from under his beanie, and before I even know what's happening, he's throwing a punch.

Maybe I was wrong about how much experience he had. He gets me square in the eye, and I can almost swear I hear my cheekbone shatter under his fist. He pulls back, panting, and the skin of his first two knuckles a bright, vibrant pink-red, like a blush, like the color of Kyle's mouth. And I don't even know why I do it, but I'm lunging for him, slamming my fist into his face as hard as I fucking can.

He retaliates, swinging wildly, his hand glancing into my shoulder, my collar bone.

I have no idea what I'm doing, what I'm fighting for. Stan's one of my best friends. He taught me how to ride my tricycle when I was four, when I was too scared of dying in some kind of freak accident with spokes poking out of my eyes (which did end up happening, actually).

He encouraged me to lose the training wheels when I was six.

Anything brave or good I ever did was because of him and Kyle. We've fought before, sure; wrestled, like I said. But over stupid things, like gameboys and baseball scores, and few times have we ever been vicious.

This is different. We're fighting for a feeling, a warm glow I can cup in my hands whenever I look at Kyle, like I'm holding my heart.

I dig my feet into the ground and punch him in the gut, putting as much power behind it as I can. Stan's breath rushes out of his lungs in an exhalation, and I use the way his body doubles over to twist my foot under his ankles and take him down. He lands in the snow with a groan, and I all on top of him, jabbing my knee hard into his rips. He shoves at me, and I punch him again, in the mouth, brutal, raising my fist again and-

A hand on my forearm stops me.

"What the _fuck _is going on?"

"Kyle," Stan croaks, and god, he is milking it. This didn't even progress into anything; I know he's taken harder hits on the football field.

And okay, yeah, maybe the blood smeared on his teeth does a good job of making him look like a victim, but I'm almost positive I've got a bruise blossoming across my eye.

I feel the need to point out that-

"He fucking started it. I told you that you had to fucking tell him already."

"Tell me _what_?" Stan growls, and his voice isn't nearly so meek as when he was talking to Kyle.

"You need to stop fighting," Kyle orders, and god, he's pulling Stan up off the ground, but he's still got a hold of me. He moves his hand from my arm to my Salvation Army coat, and he's holding both of us by our like puppies that peed on the carpet.

"I- am not a girl. I want to make that really fucking clear right now. I don't need anyone to defend my honor, and I sure as hell don't need anyone trying to prove who's the biggest, strongest man. You're both wusses."

Stan opens his mouth, but Kyle interjects with an angry- "Don't. I have seventeen years of evidence against you. Don't even try."

I, wisely, keep my mouth shut. Kyle lets me go, and I stumble away, casting my best glare at Stan. It's this weird combination of my mother's your-father-is-in-deep-shit scowl and Cartman's narrow eyed I'm-about-to-commit-genocide expression.

Stan doesn't seem to find it suitably intimidating, but then again, he's staring rather intently at Kyle.

"Look," Kyle takes a deep breath, releasing him. He glares at me, and then focuses on Stan, saying, "Look. I lead you on, and that was- cruel. I've known you liked me for a long time, and I mean, there was a time that I was totally in love with you. Like a prepubescent girl. But you were taken, and man, I moved on. I wish I hadn't, because I really hate hurting you, but Stan…I like- no, I mean, I _love_ Kenny."

Stan sucks in a breath of air like a fish gasping for water, and it doesn't really feel like any kind of victory. Like I said before, he's my best friend too. That's the hardest part; you aren't supposed to fuck over your best friend.

If we'd all been straight, heteronormative guys, and a girl had come between us, none of this would have happened. There's- I don't want to be a cliché and call it a code, because guy code is so 1988, but- we've always had an understanding. Bros over hos, every time.

I guess neither of us ever expected Kyle to be the ho.

"I thought, at first, that the only way to get past this was to take myself out of the equation, but you're both-" he glances at me- "Persistent fucks. And honestly? Life's short. We only get a limited amount of time to be happy. Stan, don't you want me to be happy?"

Ouch. I kind of hate Kyle on behalf of Stan right that second, because there's so much wrong with that question. Kyle, as a rule, has always been the second most selfish guy in our group. He hides it well, behind all his moral righteousness and virtuous causes, but he's kind of a self centered dick, a lot of the time.

If I'm being totally honest, we all are. We live for instant gratification and whatever kind of happiness we can fit in our grabby hands, which yeah, makes us normal teenage boys, but isn't exactly the definition of a decent human being. I'm not sure how I feel about Kyle's attempt to manipulate Stan into doing what he wants.

Why do we always have to manipulate each other into doing what we want?

"Of course I do," Stan says quietly, but he's not looking at either of us.

"Stan- you understand, right?"

"Yeah," he replies in a voice that indicated he really didn't. He's staring at Kyle like he's a complete stranger. Even though Kyle's my boyfriend now, even though I fucking love him, I feel like I'm intruding on something more intimate than anything I'll ever have with him.

"_Stan_."

"I said I fucking understand, okay?" Stan brushes off the knees of his jeans and glares at us both.

"Stan-" Kyle tries again.

"Really. Don't," he says, and walks towards his car.

Kyle watches him, mouth gaping open, even after he's inside, the ignition turning. He watches until Stan's taillights fade in the distance.

Then he finally turns to look at me.

"That sucked," Kyle says flatly, "Don't you dare ever make me choose between the two of you ever again."

"I didn't make you-"

"You did. The second you started fighting, you did. And- the fact that I didn't choose him? He's never going to forgive me."

His voice sounds so sad, but I don't believe that. Super best friendships don't just- stop.

"He will."

"You don't know that."

Actually, I'm one hundred percent positive that I do.

"He will."

I pull him into my chest. He's a dude, and he isn't about to cry or anything, but he looks like, maybe if he was all alone in a dark room instead of a sundrenched bust stop, he maybe would. I let him bury his head into my neck, and for the longest time, the only noise between us is the soft puff of his breath against my collarbone.

* * *

A/N: That was really short. Really, really short. I'm sorry guys, I am very much not in this fandom anymore, but I am trying to finish this for you all. On the plus side, this is what I had planned, so the skimping is not caused by my lack of interest? It just seems terrible because I haven't, um, updates in a thousand years. Your reviews keep reminding me this exists, seriously. I will try to update the next and last chapter as quickly as possible.


	19. There's No One Else To Blame

**Breathe Me**

_Chapter Nineteen: There's No One Else To Blame_

By: Jondy Macmillan

* * *

Stan doesn't forgive Kyle. Or me. For the rest of senior year, South Park sees the beginnings of a cold war that hasn't been fathomed since the Soviet scare of '97.

And me?

I've never been more confused in my life. I walk around stuck between this constant state of wracking guilt and something that feels a lot like nirvana. Kyle doesn't have Stan to focus on anymore, so I get all of his attention. All the time.

If he was a girl, I probably would've asphyxiated myself to get away from his constant, clingy presence. Except he isn't a girl. He's the guy I kind of sort of definitely love. I bask in it.

I get so _used_ to having him around.

When he starts being okay again, at least okay enough to do something other than harass me or get into vicious arguments with Cartman, I end up missing him. The year's almost over, and Kyle vaults off into the world of basketball and academia and friends who are not me. I'm suddenly at a loss for what to do with myself. I certainly can't hang out with Cartman. I barely even see him anymore.

Mostly because he's Stan's fall back plan.

At least Cartman is less than happy being plagued with _that stupid fucking hippie's_ presence.

"He's cockblocking my game," he tells me and Kyle one day after school, when Stan's stuck talking to our gym coach about something.

"You don't _have_ game, dude," I tell him, clapping him on the shoulder.

"I have game, you poor fuck. I have game you've never seen."

"Did it get lost in your flab?" Kyle asks, but his face is half buried in a text book, and his heart obviously isn't in it.

"Shut the fuck up Kyle. Jews get no opinion."

Cartman keeps glancing around the corner to make sure Stan isn't coming for the entirety of the conversation, because-

"He's going to talk my fucking ear off about how I've betrayed him too, you guys. It isn't fair. This is all your fault, Kenneh."

I shrug. I've heard it all by now. I'm the guy who broke up the most notorious friendship South Park has ever had. A lot of names get tossed my way. Homewrecker being the nicest of them.

For a little while, I feel like public enemy number one, with everyone. Man, I'd be lying if I try to say I don't care, but it seems…less important that it would've a few months ago, somehow.

Like background noise.

Not insignificant, just not high on my list of priorities.

And eventually, the anger fades.

People don't exactly forget about Stan and Kyle. I don't know if anyone will ever forget about Stan and Kyle and what they've always been to this town. But we're in high school. A new scandal comes along, and most of the ire just kind of dissipates.

Soon enough, the only one who won't meet my eyes across the cafeteria is Stan, and as much as it bothers me, there's nothin' I can do about it. I accept that.

I move on.

I'm not proud of it. But I do it all the same.

* * *

The day the financial aid letter arrives to back up my Colorado State acceptance, I nearly bowl Kyle over in the hallway. I shove the letter in his face, not sure how to feel.

"I got in."

"I know you got in," Kyle says, sounding a little confused. His eyes focus on the letter; on the word _scholarship_. His smile is slow, creeping across his face until it's brilliant, blinding.

"Holy fuck, dude!" He throws his arms around my neck, "That's amazing."

It's not a full ride, but it's pretty damn close.

It's the first time I feel like Kyle's faith in me for the past two years has actually been justified. It's not just him that believes in me anymore. It's the full force of academia.

Kyle's beaming at me. "Next year's going to be so fucking boss."

Happiness sparks inside me, but it doesn't last for long. I remember the conversation Kyle and I had at Raisin's, the night of our first date. He wanted to go to college with me and Stan and Cartman so badly. I'd taken for granted that it would happen.

Kyle and Stan were supposed to be unbreakable.

I try to force a smile as big as Kyle's, but inside I'm torn with guilt.

Now I know. Everything ends.

"Kenny," Kyle traces a finger along my jaw line. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing. Just. Thank you," I tell him, my smile turning genuine. I can't believe I'm actually going to get out of South Park.

"Why are you thanking me? Kenny- you did this all on your own." He pulls back and plants a fat kiss on my lips, right there in the hallway. In that moment, I don't think about Stan or Cartman or any of the two hundred kids milling around us. It's just me and Kyle and _the future_.

The one I never thought I'd have.

* * *

Time passes so quickly when things are good.

The last few weeks of my senior year blur together like I've had too much booze and too little to eat. Everyone's happy, all the time. Old acquaintances I haven't talked to since pre-k come up in the hallway to congratulate me. People I don't even like, including Heidi Turner, sign my year book and tell me that they'll _never forget me_. My teachers get a little weepy eyed. Even Cartman sheds a tear.

I can't enjoy it. Not completely. Not when one person is missing from all the festivities. But there's just no time to dwell. Next thing I know, we're graduating, and Stan is gone from our lives forever.

The summer is full of what my dad calls glory days. There are pool parties and keggers and a whole hell of a lot of nights spent lazily watching TV at the Stop-N-Pump, Kyle curled around my feet, studying. He's already bought his text books for his classes next year. Overachiever.

Between pages, he leans up past the cash register to kiss me, and every time I capture the image of his eyes in my mind like a memory. Because that's what this is all leading up to. Summer passes. It becomes a memory.

Soon enough, I'm headed off to State with Kyle.

Unless you count dying, I've never left South Park for longer than a few weeks. And the idea of leaving home, weirdly, scares me. I'm going to miss my asshole big brother and my stupid, violent parents who love each other the only way they know how. I'm going to miss free cafeteria food and all the kids I grew up with.

I might even miss the fatass, a little. In a shocking move, he's headed off to Stanford. In California. One of his least favorite states. None of us are really sure what to make of that.

But I'm also looking forward to new beginnings. I'm looking forward to starting something with Kyle at my side.

"You ready to do this?" He asks, shoving one last box into the back of his mom's SUV. We're driving to the dorms together. We're going to be rooming in a triple with some dude who hopefully isn't too homophobic. If he is, he might have to get in touch with his inner gay.

I learned how to do it. He'll deal.

"Yeah," I shut the trunk of his mom's car. "I think I am."

Kyle grabs my hand and smiles.

Right before I climb into the back seat of the car, Kevin jogs up to me from the front porch. "Kinny!"

"Hey. Um. 'Sup?"

"I- You," Kevin stumbles over his words. He scratches the back of his head and says carefully, "You made some mistakes this year."

I know he's talking about his friend at the garage. It's a quick pang of guilt in my chest that passes just as quickly. I haven't forgiven myself for that; but I sure as hell have been trying.

"Yeah," I reply warily.

"But. You made it." He gestures to the car.

I'm not totally sure what he means by that. And then he grins.

"I'm proud of you, baby brother," Kevin says, and it's the first time I've ever fully believed anything my brother told me.

Because I'm pretty proud of myself too.

* * *

What? You didn't think that was the end of the story, did you? We'll just skip ahead. You don't really need to hear about my mundane college life. Communal bathrooms. Cute coeds. That one story about how our roommate kind of abandoned ship after he walked in on my extracurricular activities. With Kyle.

Yeah. Not important.

We did get moved into a double after that, though.

What _is_ important is what goes down late in the fall. The day starts with Kyle flying into our room from the hallway, toothbrush still shoved in his mouth. He's got foam dripping down his chin. I'm in the midst of a very involved game of zombie killing.

That I've been playing since the previous night, when we had considerably more people squeezed into our tiny place.

"Kenny! Have you seen my polisci text book?"

"Nope." I look at the stack of books propping up my feet. His text's sticking right out in the middle. Kyle's busy scanning the windowsill, his desk, and the two twin beds we share (pushed together, for additional fun) for any sign of the thing. I think about sayin' something, but our dorm room's not all that big.

Eh. He'll figure it out.

"How am I supposed to find anything?" Kyle grumbles, mouth full. He spits into a red plastic cup lying on one of our desks. There are empty bottles of beer everywhere. "It looks like a party bus blew up in here."

"We're popular guys," I mutter, trying to evade a rotting corpse with an axe. I sway with the controller. I'm almost at level 1,830. Kyle rinses his toothpaste-y mouth with something that looks like it might be jungle juice. In the process, he spies the book, snatching it out from my footrest.

"Klepto."

"This was not _theft_. This was a strategic intervention," I declare.

"How so?"

I pause the game and set down the controller.

"You don't have to go to class, you know. We could go back to bed," I suggest brightly, wiggling my eyebrows. I might've taken a brief breather from the game last night. Once. Or twice. Or-

My boyfriend's hot, okay?

Kyle grins. "Tempting."

He kisses me quick on the lips, soft and sweet, and every bit as pulse-raising as the first time. Then he yelps, "Late, late, _late_, I'm so late," and runs out the room, still clad only in his boxers and one of my band t-shirts.

We are such a picture of domestic bliss.

I watch him leave in a flurry of red curls.

I don't have class for another four hours. Plenty of time to kill as many zombies as humanly possible.

I'm already on level 2,000 when I hear a knock at the door. Grumbling, I pause my game and get up to open it.

And then I stare. Long and hard. I blink a few times to make sure I'm not dreaming. Then I stare some more.

I am not so good with surprises.

"Kenny?"

"Stan?" I swallow back my shock and the sudden, strange wellspring of nerves that is making me feel off kilter just standing in his presence.

He's not quite the same kid I left at Park County High. He's still tall and broad shouldered, corn-fed and familiar, but he's got a bit of goatee going and his hair's shorter than I remember. He carries himself differently, too.

Maybe it's just that he seems like his own person now, without Kyle, or the shadow of Kyle, at his side.

There's this weird feeling in my chest that is trying to tell me that I've missed him.

God, I've really fucking missed him.

"Uh. Lookin' for Kyle?" I don't think Kyle has actually spoken to Stan in close to six months, but I can't think of any other reason for Stan to be standing on my doormat. My figurative doormat, because the room I share with Kyle is one of forty in the long hall, and the people in 3B are legit kleptos.

Also, who has the time or the energy or the cash to buy a doormat when there are midterms to vanquish and zombie hordes to slaughter and beer that needs a whole lot of drinking?

Bit of trivia: Kyle and I are the beer pong champs of our hall.

"Actually." Stan shuffles his feet. "I was looking for you."

"Um. Okay," I say warily. Well missed or not, I don't trust the kid as far as I can throw him. Which is probably not very far, given his very broad shoulders.

The idea that he is going to kill me and hide my body so well I'll never return actually flits through my mind.

"Can we talk?"

I scoot out of the doorway, letting Stan follow me inside. He takes in our room; the empty cups and bottles, the rigged queen bed, the dirty piles of laundry, and the mish mash of posters Kyle and I have collected. His eyes land on the framed picture Kyle and I keep of the four of us; me and him and Stan and Cartman, standing next to Stark's Pond and grinning like we've got the whole world laid out before us.

Stan breathes, "I'm an asshole."

"What?" I blink.

"Look. I love Kyle. I'm always going to love Kyle." I cross my arms, automatically defensive. Stan barrels forward, "But I acted like a retard. You're my bud. I don't want to keep doing this. I don't want to _not_ be friends with you guys. And- I want you both to be happy. If you make each other happy-"

"If?" I interject.

"Okay." He holds up his hands and laughs, even though I can see it still stings. "You guys make each other happy. I don't want to ruin that, for either of you. Plus, dude, my school _blows_. The only company I have is Cartman."

"Ouch." I wince. "I thought he was at Stanford."

"He got kicked out after he tried to exterminate all the hippies in California. We're _roomies_ now."

"_Ouch_," I repeat. I cannot even imagine what kind of hell that is.

"Tell me about it. I'm going to fucking shoot myself in the head if I have to spend any more time with that douchebag." He glances at my TV. "Is that the newest Gamesphere?"

"Graduation gift from Kyle's mom," I reply. I take a deep breath and ask, "Want to play?"

Which is how Stan and I end up shooting zombies together.

I'll miss my first class of the day, but whatever. It's a special occasion.

"So, like." I grin, settling back down onto my perch, constructed out of a cardboard box, text books, and some ratty blankets. "Do you still think about Kyle when you masturbate?"

"_Kenny_." Stan blushes, sitting cross legged on the floor beside me. He goes about setting up the second controller, diligently avoiding my eyes.

"No, no, it's cool. I mean, he's my boyfriend. He's sexy as hell. Why wouldn't you want to scream his name into your pillow? I do it, all the time."

Stan looks a little green. It's mean to tease him, but. It's also the only way I've ever known how to interact with him. Besides, Stan's the one who cast Kyle and me aside. I'm not going to hunch my shoulders and treat him like a delicate fuckin' flower just because I want him to be my friend.

I mean, I do want him to be my friend. I've missed him in a psychotically insane kind of way. But I want him to be my friend, as in _me_, as in I don't plan on changin' who I am to please him.

"Too soon?"

"Much," Stan grunts, but then he pokes me in the side and says, "At least now I know who's catching. How's it feel being Kyle's bottom bitch?"

"Dude, no. We're a forward thinking, adventurous young couple. We _both_ play bottom bitch."

Startlingly, Stan laughs.

Then he violently shoots my character in the head, but hey. He doesn't whip out a knife and turn on me, so I'm counting it as a win.

When Kyle comes back from class, looking haggard, he doesn't even notice Stan sitting on the floor. At first. He barges into the room, slamming his keys onto the desk and saying, "That professor is ridiculous. How can he not know that the Geneva Convention-"

He stops, spotting Stan. He blinks, kind of mirroring what I'd done earlier. He's obviously in the midst of trying to decide if I've hunted down my very own realistic Stan-lookalike. I decide to save him the trouble of sorting this out in his head. "Want to kill some zombies? Or we could probably switch to Nazis, if you're feeling real violent."

I start shuffling through the games lying haphazardly under his desk.

Kyle stares at us long and hard. Finally he says, "What's- going on?"

I look back up and grin at him. In that one expression, I want him to see everything.

How much I love him.

How everything's going to be okay.

Better than okay.

The future is going to be fucking fantastic.

But I don't say any of it. There's so much time for that later.

Kyle and Stan and I are going to have millions of days to talk about the things that have happened between us. We're going to have forever to fix up our friendship, to right all the things that we have skewed. I don't imagine a single conversation is going to set everything right, this exact moment, so I figure, why bother?

"Stan's here," I say simply. Stan waves, almost too focused on beheading the undead to actually even fully acknowledge Kyle's presence. He does pull himself away long enough to smile, and just like my expression, there's so much in it.

First and foremost, apologies. And forgiveness. Everything Kyle really needs. Timidly, he smiles back, still looking to the both of us for some kind of explanation.

Instead I tell him, "Grab a controller."

* * *

A/N: Ze end. Um. I hope you like it. If you don't, uh. Oops. This was always where this thing was headed. I'm bad with endings though, so it took me a while to get here. I want to thank you guys for all of your magnificent reviews. I honestly only managed to get through this because you guys are all fantastic.

If you made it this far, though? Props. I've been rereading like crazy to make sure that I'm not crossing my meta, and there are _so many _typos and mixed meta points that I kind of wanted to cry. I'm diligently working through the process of editing the previous chapters. You heard that right. I edit now. My new fandom has taught me well. Also, work and real life. But yeah, I've gotten chapters one-three done, and I'll hopefully have it all fixed by next week. If I don't get lazy. As I do.

Chapter titles come from: Died a Jew by Say Anything, Centrefolds by Placebo, Boom! By System of a Down, Edge of the Ocean by Ivy, Love is Blindness by Tresspassers William, You'll Always Find Your Way Back Home by Miley Cyrus, Just One Breath by Devics, Walking by The Dodos, Bloody Murderer by Cursive, She Is by The Fray, Im'ma Shine by Youngbloodz, Cartwheels by The Reindeer Section, Lips Like Morphine by Kill Hannah, Get Free by The Vines, The Schemers, The Scroungers, and the Rats by The King Blues, God Willing by Dropkick Murphys, Do You Miss Me by Lucky Boys Confusion, Inside Your Head by Eberg, and of course, the inspiration for this whole thing, Breathe Me by Sia.


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